


Closing Your Eyes

by Bam4Me



Series: Reincarnate [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: #givejonbabies2017, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Babies, Betha has anxiety about touching people that will later be a one shot set early on when Jon met her, Direwolf puppies, Disassociation, Dreamsharing, F/F, Gen, Gender Confusion, Genderqueer Jon, Jon and Dany are soulmates, Jon is his fathers son so he claims children as his own and then makes more, Jon might have social anxiety in this one, M/M, Magic, Magic-Users, Masculine presenting gender neutral Jon, Panic Attacks, Platonic Soulmates, Set late season 6+, Slow Build To War, Soulmates, Stillborn (past) trauma, Surrogacy, This is the fic that Moves The Plot, body confusion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-21 02:43:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10676043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bam4Me/pseuds/Bam4Me
Summary: There's still so much to do before the war comes. Luckily, when impending possible doom is on it's way, there's not much else to do but plan and be close to those you love.





	1. Take A Deep Breath

**Author's Note:**

> This WILL have many chapters to it, don't worry. I'm hoping to keep the chapter word counts pretty consistently up there, so I think this one is gonna end up HELLA long compared to the others, and since I post these things AS I finish them, that means the chapters will be updated as I write them. But thankfully, I have been In The Mood to write for this series lately, and tbh the only reason I'm stopping for today is cause I am tired and going to bed in a bit, but really, I'm going to try to write as much of this as I can.
> 
> I will add tags as I go, but yes, this one IS the one where Dany finally meets Jon in person. (When I am done with what I have Planned for this series so far, I will try to work on some fics from her POV too.)
> 
> I will not write the battle itself though, tbh, I'm freaking shit at action stuffs.
> 
> littlesforfandom.tumblr.com

Jon was sitting in his old bedroom when Tormund found him, staring into the cold fireplace. Half the room’s contents were ash, and the other, rotted, but Jon was sitting on a crate that was half intact, breathing hard. He was still covered in blood and dirt, his fists were still covered in Ramsay Bolton’s blood.

 

Ramsay Bolton was now sitting in the dungeon’s, waiting to wake up so Sansa could watch him be eaten alive by his own hounds. They were going to have to shoot those beasts to get rid of them later, too feral to leave them be.

 

It hadn’t been as bad as it could have been, but Ramsay had managed to do some pretty good damage to them with that wall of bodies he managed to build, as if taunting Jon with the Wall itself.

 

“Wun wun?”

 

Tormund wasn’t fully sure what to say to that, so he answered honestly. “The Free Folk healers think he’ll live if he makes it through the night. They’ve made him a bed of straw out in the courtyard and put a tent around him to keep out the cold. Mag and Dongo are causing a bit of a fuss, not wanting to leave him alone, but we think we can calm them down enough to stop getting in the way.”

 

Jon nodded, still looking numb, and staying that way till Tormund came to kneel in front of him. He would take Jon’s hands in his own to kiss them, but honestly, they were both disgustingly dirty right now.

 

“Come, Jon Snow, there is a bath waiting for us.”

 

Jon let Tormund take him by the hand and pull him off the crate, following after him with a sniff. He actually wishes he could go to sleep right now, if only to see Daenerys, but he knew she was most likely awake anyways, and he truly felt disgusting. They ended up in a room that was nothing special, but had a tub big enough for them to bathe, though with all the grime on them, they’d probably need it several times.

 

“Is Ygritte alright?”

 

Tormund was undressing Jon with deft fingers, for a man with hands as large as his. He smiled a little, and it lightened Jon’s heart some. “Your sister took her down to the springs under the castle, though she said you and I were banned until we were scrubbed free of as much of this grime as we could. Apparently, we would dirty the waters.”

 

Jon snorted. “We would. Ygritte must have been much cleaner than we ended up.”

 

“She was. Damn archers barely got messy at all.”

 

Jon sighed as he was pulled out of his shirt, and winced, finally moving to take off his own britches while Tormund started undressing himself. “If we scrub ourselves off here we can go down to the springs and join them.”

 

He pulled off his boots, not even wanting to think of how utterly gross he was right now. Any man who’s ever said he would fuck right after a battle, has either never been in a battle like this, or is lying. Or they’re truly a disgusting pig, but Jon’s starting to find that a lot of people in this world were disgusting.

 

Tormund snorted, letting Jon hold onto his shoulder while he stepped into the tub to keep his balance. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. Her and your sister naked down there…”

 

Jon frowned, reaching out to grab one of the -many- washcloths on the side of the tub, and starting to scrub at his legs, sitting down so he had more room. Instead of Tormund getting in with him, he sat on the side of the tub and grabbed his own washcloth so he could scrub Jon’s back and his own upper body. There wasn’t exactly enough room in the tub for both of them.

 

“She’s my sister, I’ve seen her naked before, and Ygritte too, since we used to wash together above the Wall in the springs there. It’s fine.”

 

Tormund stilled his cloth, giving Jon and incredulous look. “You really are a bit slow, aren’t you?”

 

Jon squeaked when the man started scrubbing at his sides now, feeling confused. “I’m not? What am I being slow about?”

 

“The fact that your sister and Ygritte are probably fucking down there right now.”

 

Jon’s jaw dropped, shocked. “What? No. Why would they do that?”

 

Tormund started praying to the gods to give him strength. If that battle didn’t kill him, being married to the most oblivious man in the North would. “Because of the same reason it took you until a month ago to realize we were together. As in, they _love_ each other.”

 

Jon turned to give Tormund a slightly horrified look, though Tormund isn’t sure why, so Tormund took another washcloth and dipped it in the water, before shoving it in Jon’s gaping face, making the man sputter and take it from him instead of arguing.

 

***

 

It was hard, putting Rickon’s body to rest in the crypt, and Jon almost couldn’t breath by the time he made it out of there. He feels like he’s failed.

 

He knows that’s not true, he tried his best, it just wasn’t enough, but every death -including his own- in his family, felt like a knife in his chest. He wondered if there would be one for every knife they put in him in the end.

 

When Jon came back to the tent he and Tormund stayed in outside of the gates of Winterfell with the closest members of the Free Folk, Jon paused outside the entrance, hearing voices from inside.

 

“You’re allowed to go in, even if he’s with them.”

 

Jon turned to see a tired looking Mance a few feet away. Not many people have gotten much sleep since the battle, and Jon supposes those with children would get even less. Ghost was at their side, and Jon absently wondered if the direwolf has claimed the little prince as his ward from now on. It wouldn’t be the worst idea. Maybe he’s just gotten used to protecting those with children.

 

Still, the wolf got up on his hind legs, body crushing into Jon’s and nearly sending both of them to the ground before Jon caught him around the middle, not so much holding him up, as bracing him against his body. Jon smiled, even though it put a strain on his sore leg that was still throbbing from the battle mere days ago. It made him feel alive.

 

“He’s talking with his daughters. I don’t want to interrupt. Just because he married me, doesn’t mean they’re obligated to interact with me.”

 

Mance gave him an almost pitying look. “Jon Snow, you are not your sister’s mother, and any child would be happy to have you, as a father or not. You would never treat them as she treated you.”

 

Jon blinked, letting Ghost back to the ground, and he came back down with an audible thump in the snow. “You’re right, I would never treat anyone like that. But still, they’re not obliged to talk to me. I won’t force myself on them.”

 

Mance gave him a bland look. “Have you ever spoken to them long enough to know if they would like to interact with you? Maybe your dismissive attitude towards them makes them think they’re unwanted. Sound familiar?”

 

Jon sighed, looking away from the man, not wanting to admit he was right. “Fine. I’ll talk with them.”

 

Betha and Daia were different in their looks, how that had happened with them both having the same mother, but it didn’t matter. By all southern standards, they were bastard children born out of wedlock and raised by the Valarian fire users. But still, they were young, and they were sisters, as close to each other as Jon and Robb had been before they had both left home. Jon hoped that nothing would ever separate them like that, for he knew how much it hurt.

 

It was getting dim out, and Jon wondered if the girls would be staying with them for the night. He wouldn’t mind it, as long as they didn’t. Honestly, I loved the girls, they were sweet and fierce, and it made him love them so much, and he knows they like him too, but he didn’t want to force himself on them. He wasn’t trying to be their mother, they already had one.

 

“And my husband returns to us, you were missed.” Jon couldn’t help looking away with a little smile on his face. Tormund seemed to love the way he’d flush and look pleased at being called ‘husband’ and took pleasure in calling him that.

 

Jon sat down on the pile of furs next to Tormund, who was watching Betha clumsily use two knitting needles and a ball of yarn. She had never knit before, but she seemed determined to learn. Tormund said she loved learning more than anything, a sign of a good mind adept in training, and Jon was already planning on asking Sansa if she could find someone to teach her to read and write. Writing was almost completely non existent in the Beyond, and with this many people with spells to remember and histories to write, it would be invaluable to them.

 

Tormund was still stubbornly insisting that he didn’t need to read. Jon was pretty sure he could break him.

 

Daia happily got up from her place next to the oversized fire that they rightly shouldn’t be burning inside the tent -the fire that burned nothing even though it was too big, and bellowed no smoke, Jon was sure it was a magical fire of her own creation, for the girl loved growing things above all else- and moved so she could squish herself into Jon’s side, not a care for things like proprietary or personal space.

 

“Jon, what’s your sister’s favorite flower?”

 

She was holding a bundle of them for him to choose from, all of them different and beautiful. They were personally grown by her and unique in their own way. Jon doesn’t think he’s ever seen flowers like this grow anywhere else before.

 

“Well, Sansa always loved pinks and oranges and yellows. I think she might like any of these, though.”

 

The girl frowned, and plucked one of them out of the bunch. “Not the blue roses. Those are only for you. Ygritte said she wanted to give Sansa flowers, but it’s too cold for them to grow naturally, so she wanted me to make some.”

 

Jon sighed, ignoring the pointed look Tormund threw his way as if to tell him he told him so. He held up the blue rose with an odd look. He’s never seen Daia give anyone else a blue rose before, and apparently they were his.

 

He feels as though finding blue roses growing in the snow as a child, was as significant to him, as finding dragon eggs in Daenerys’s home in Pentos had once been. Sometimes the two of them dreamt of things that ended up being part of their future, and sometimes they dreamt things that didn’t matter one bit, other than to entertain them.

 

He held up the flower to the light of the fire, noting that it was vibrant and almost seemed to shine. “You know, you can make tea out of rose petals, or put it in bath water to make it smell nice. It also make you stop swelling if you’re sick. It turns water the colour of the petal when you put it in.”

 

Daia hummed, as if it was something to think over before nodding her head. “I’ll bring roses up to the castle tomorrow for them to use. Not blue ones though, those are yours.”

 

Jon turned to share a look with Tormund, who shrugged at him. They still couldn’t figure her out.

 

“There is going to be a feast in the dining hall tonight with all of the houses that fought and supported our claim for the Free Folk to stay here. It would be best if you came to it. Mance and Dalla are coming as well.”

 

Tormund stared at him for a long moment. “Why do I have to come? I’m not a leader of a great and noble house.”

 

Jon gave him a look like he thought Tormund was an idiot. “You’re my husband. Tormund, that unfortunately means something. If they expect me, they’ll expect you too.”

 

Tormund rolled his eyes up. “Why do you need to go anyways?”

 

Jon could feel his head throbbing. “Oh, I don’t know, probably because I was the one who asked them all to support us, and got an army big enough to defeat them, and also I’m the brother of the heir to Winterfell, Tormund, there are a _lot_ of reasons I’m expected to be there.”

 

“Can me and Betha go?”

 

Betha looked up from her knitting and smiled at them once as if to say she was okay with it, before going back to her work. She was the quiet one. Jon nodded, pressing a kiss to the top of Daia’s head. “Of course.”

 

***

 

Jon was sitting at the table at the front of the room next to Sansa, Tormund on his other side. Tormund wasn’t interested so much in the feast as he was the food. Sansa was quietly speaking with Ygritte next to them, and Jon wondered how he’d possibly missed the two of them before. It was rather obvious from the pleasurable flush to Sansa’s cheeks as they spoke.

 

Mance was on Tormund’s other side, initiating in a bored staring contest with Ghost, who was occasionally glancing over to Dalla, and as well, the little prince, who Jon is fairly sure he’s claimed as his own. Jon should probably do something about that, but he really didn’t see the issue in the young prince having someone to watch over him.

 

Betha and Daia were sitting with their mother on one of the lower tables, though Jon watched Daia get up from her seat to cautiously approach the young Lyanna Mormont. Jon quite liked Lyanna Mormont, even if he was a little afraid of her as well. Sansa might also be afraid of her. It had been a tense meeting.

 

Her declaration of some of the other’s lord’s lack of honor in respecting their banners when called to arms, had been amusing.

 

Her declaration of Jon as King in the North had been less amusing. In fact, Jon is pretty sure he felt his back run cold in that moment.

 

He turned to look over at Mance. “Are you okay with that? Because I didn’t ask for it, and I don’t want to die in my sleep because of it.”

 

Mance finally looked away from the direwolf, who happily took that as an excuse to get his front paw in Dalla’s lap, leaning in to snuffle and lick the little prince now that he wasn’t being glared at. “You know, the only reason I became King Beyond the Wall, is to get all the clans together and below the Wall. We’re below it now, and as long as you don’t run around dragging us into wars we don’t want to be a part of, you can call yourself king for all I care. Getting us to _respect_ you as king… that one’s more difficult.”

 

Jon elbowed Tormund in the side when he heard the man snort, making him grunt instead, but didn’t take his eyes off Mance. “We could make you a leader, of sorts. I… I’ve never been out of Westeros before, but I know there are cities across the Narrow Sea, ones that govern by leaders instead of kings. Not all of them are all that great, since Westeros is one of few places in the known world without slaves, but there’s no reason that your opinion isn’t wanted if your only goal is to help your people.”

 

Mance nodded, seeming to like that idea. “That’s alright. I assume you’ll establish the same with you and your sister? If only because you looked like you were about to pass out when they called you King. I’m sure she could help.”

 

Jon looked over at Sansa, and nearly jumped out of his seat when he found her staring directly at him. She gave him an unimpressed look. “Of course, I would _love_ to rule the North for you.”

 

Jon frowned, sitting back in his chair to glare at her some. “If you don’t want to, I can always ask for Dany to help instead.”

 

Sansa gave him a small, almost sad smile, and Jon suddenly wanted to vomit at the painful reminder that Sansa probably still didn’t believe him about her. Pitying her brother for having always been a victim to the faults of his own mind. “Of course you could, Jon.”

 

Jon turned back to the feast to watch the other houses speak to each other, suddenly not feeling hungry anymore.

 

***

 

Jon was naked on their bed when Tormund came back from speaking to another man on their way back. Jon was uncovered as he stared into the fire, almost in a daze. The Red Woman used to stare into a fire all night long and she said it gave her a heat that never let her be cold. Jon wasn’t necessarily _warm_ , but his body never felt cold the same way others did. Though his skin was icy to the touch, it never made him shake, and he didn’t feel uncomfortable.

 

The fire, still burning hot and bright from when Daia had made it earlier that day, made the tent warmer, but not enough to be comfortable without clothes on. Winterfell had always been much warmer with it’s pipes heating the walls, but until that was rebuilt, Jon and Tormund would stay here. He thinks this is what Daenerys meant when she said the fire couldn’t burn her.

 

Tormund gave him an incredulous look, stripping out of his outer layers, and got onto the furs with Jon, still covered from the waist down. For someone so much bigger than Jon, he was much more susceptible to the cold than Jon was.

 

He sat down next to Jon and leaned in to cover Jon’s back with his front. Jon could feel Tormund shiver at the icy feel of Jon’s skin, and winced, feeling bad for letting himself get too cold to touch, but Tormund didn’t let go, kissing his neck up to Jon’s jaw and down to his mouth. Jon twisted in his arms to pull him closer, sucking on Tormund’s bottom lip, nibbling at it until Tormund was shivering for different reasons.

 

“You’ll lose a limb if you keep taking off all your clothes like that.”

 

Jon shook his head. “I don’t actually think I will.”

 

Jon pulled Tormund back with him onto the furs, shifting so Tormund was kneeling between his naked legs, making Tormund snort. Jon moved fast when he wanted something.

 

“I know you may think so, and I love you, but I didn’t marry you so I could fuck a corpse, I prefer you warm.”

 

Jon sighed, though it was with amusement, and let Tormund get them under the furs. By the time Tormund was back between Jon’s legs, Jon was halfway to hard and so comfortable, all he could do was hum in delight as Tormund kissed down his stomach and used a bottle of oil to open Jon up to him.

 

Tormund was bigger than Jon was, by more than a little, and the first time they had done this, Jon had nearly told him no. Of course, that was before he realized that the size was quite possibly the best part of it.

 

Jon let out a shuddering breath followed by a low moan when Tormund slipped in another finger, kissing up his chest so he could bite at Jon’s left nipple, making shivers wrack down Jon’s spine till he was gently clenching down on Tormund’s three fingers when it made him feel sensitive.

 

When Tormund lifted up to kiss him, gently working his fingers open so he could get a fourth one in, he was smirking. “I wonder how no one ever realized you and I have never fucked before now, what with how you never exactly made all this noise before.”

 

Jon bit his lip, glaring at Tormund even as he was forced to let go of it to gasp when Tormund curled his fingers up. He wasn’t trying to be loud, but he couldn’t help it really. He was actually pretty glad they’ve never done this before, because they would eventually move into the castle one day, but Jon can’t look half these people in the eye after Tormund’s had his way with him most of the time. Keeping quiet was hard.

 

Upon asking Daenerys how she did it, she had told him that in the khalasar, couples would make love under the stars for all to see, there was never any need to keep quiet. She had also implied that Tormund would probably convince him to do it too if they were there, which had caused Jon to avoid her for nearly an hour after.

 

Jon was covering his own mouth when Tormund finally pushed in, trying not to get loud again as he breathed through the wide stretch of it inside of him. He hissed out against Tormund’s shoulder when the other man shifted, making his cock twitch against their stomachs. “Tormund-”

 

Tormund leaned in to kiss at his neck again, hips moving against Jon’s as Jon tried his damndest to stay quiet. It really wasn’t working. “How could I deny you pleasure so intense that you can’t hold yourself back?”

 

Jon sighed, pushing down against him before shuddering at the feel of that tight roll into the spot that made Jon want to pass out sometimes. “Maybe because I’m pretty sure half the men outside will listen in just to tease later?”

 

Tormund grinned, kissing up Jon’s neck so he could suck on the spot that made Jon weak. “Let them listen. They’re jealous I get you all to myself.”

 

When Jon came between them, he bit Tormund’s shoulder to keep from crying out at the intense feeling of Tormund moving inside of him and too much all at once, dragging Tormund over the edge with him.

 

They were laying together in the tent, too many furs piled on top of them and Jon halfway on Tormund’s chest, when Jon barely lifted up one heavy hand and whacked Tormund on the side. “Hey.”

 

Tormund didn’t open his eyes to reply, just grunted and covered Jon’s smaller hand with his own.

 

“Am I cold now?”

 

Tormund snorted. “If you don’t let me sleep, I’ll kick you out of the tent, and _then_ you’ll be cold.”

 

Jon yawned, curling up tighter against Tormund’s side, knowing fully well that he’d never kick him out. “Okay.”

 

***

 

Lyanna Mormont was a strong girl. She wasn’t a grown woman yet, or even a teen, but she was already the head of the house of Bear Island.

 

Daia rather thought these southroners did things a little bit odd, but she couldn’t deny that Lyanna was a force to be reckoned with. Daia should probably try to be more like her. Daia was the daughter of two of the Free People’s most accomplished warriors, and her father’s husband had even gone against his Night’s Watch brothers just to get them and all their people to safety.

 

Those that she looked up to were all strong warriors, but Daia, though she was a year older than this young southron lady, well, Daia just liked her flowers. Even among the Free Folk who grew and used magic, she was considered light hearted for wanting to be surrounded by beautiful flowers and heat to stay in comfort. She was odd, for her bloodlust was quiet and she would rather spend her days watching the plants than fighting in battle.

 

Well, that might be an exaggeration. She thinks that for all their talk, the Free Folk are a lot more like her than they’ll admit.

 

Keorn the Thenn was a warrior, but she thought he liked to climb trees and she once found him talking to a squirrel he’d made friends with. He liked nature too. She thinks he prefers nature over battle.

 

Maiahas was a young spearwife who was born a tribesman. They’ve accepted her change rather well, but Maiahas was always talking about fishing for some reason. She would chatter on about it to anyone, and she was going out to shore constantly. Maiahas definitely likes fishing more than going to battle.

 

Her own father seemed to prefer watching his young husband more often than not, nowadays. She knows for sure, that if he could spend the rest of their life in peace and together, he’d be happier than anything.

 

Maybe it’s not even her wish not to go to battle, maybe it was just her magic that set her apart. No way was she too soft for her people because she preferred flowers. She hopes.

 

She was in the glass garden right now. The Free Folk didn’t need glass gardens to grow their food, and Lady Sansa has already told them again and again how thankful she is for their help and support to keep food supplied. Daia knows there are a lot of people who have moved into the castle just so they can have access to the kitchens. It turns out, cooking is a craft in itself, and many are happy to share it.

 

She wanted to know how the glass gardens work, and now that they were living in a place that might not have snow on the ground year round, she thinks she needs to learn how to grow in dirt as well. It’s not that she can’t do it, but she would want it perfect, so she needs to practice.

 

So far, her first attempts were a little wobbly, but she’s found some rare gems in the colourful bushes she’s planted already. She clipped them as carefully as she could with these strange gardening sheers, and pulled the bouquet together with the twine a girl in the kitchens had given her before she had left for the gardens.

 

She waved once at the other workers in the garden, and left out the doors. They had three glass gardens, but not many people had been using this one when she first got here. It was perfect for experimenting in, and perfectly heated to keep her from the chill outside.

 

She didn’t fair the cold as well as some others, preferring heat. Jon told her his soulmate preferred heat too. She left the glass gardens and started walking back to the castle. Betha was in the castle with some other kids and adults who were being taught how to read and write right now, but Daia had little patience for such things, much like her father. She at least needed _something_ to do with her fingers. Jon said he’ll try to find something for her hands to do while she was learning, but until then, he wouldn’t force her. Daia appreciated that.

 

She found Lyanna Mormont sitting in the great hall with a book at her elbow and speaking quietly with her maester while they went over things Daia didn’t know anything about.

 

The maester saw her first, and smiled. She liked him, he was much more open to the Free Folk than many of the other southroners. He always smiled at her like that and encouraged Lyanna to go play with her. He must be doing that now, for he turned to her now and spoke softly so as not to carry across the room. Lyanna looked up from her book, saw Daia there and smiled back at her, and spoke once more with the maester. She got up after a smile and a nod from him and started to cross the room to come stand next to her.

 

“Hello.”

 

Daia grinned, almost cheekily, and held out the bouquet to the other girl, who took it with a slight start. “I made these for you.”

 

Lyanna looked up at her with wide eyes. “You made them?”

 

Daia nodded. “I use my magic to grow things. I can show you some time if you want.”

 

Lyanna nodded with a little smile on her face. “I would like that, very much. Why did you give me them, though?”

 

“Well, they’re really pretty, so I thought they would go best with other pretty things. Like you.”

 

Lyanna was quiet, and when Daia looked down at her over the flowers, she was using them to hide her face while she blushed. Daia gave her a roguish smile, almost identical to the one Tormund gave Jon when he thought he was doing something cute, and reached out to grab Lyanna’s hand. “Come on, I want to go down and see the hot springs under the castle. Jon says we’re allowed to use them.”

 

“Okay.” Lyanna didn’t take her hand back from her, just followed behind with the flowers still in her arms.

  



	2. Family Comes First

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're not here for Jon Snow getting to be a parent, you're not here for this fic. #givejonbabies2k17
> 
> I'm pretty sure if you gave Jon a baby he'd go from angry hornet to cinnamon roll, too good, too pure for this world.

Jon and Daenerys were wrapped up in thin silk and heavy fur as they stood on the edge of the Free Folk camp one night. Jon wore the thin silk of course, with Daenerys wrapped up so well one could barely see her form under it. Jon couldn’t feel much of the cold anyways, and he’s always liked the softer clothes Daenerys would give him as a child.

 

Sometimes, he wondered if it would feel the same in real life, though he’d never try that this far in the North. No where to get this fine silk anyways.

 

They watched the memories of the day’s activity as Jon remembered it, and both of their eyes trailed after a group of small children as they came running by, excited shouts as they played games, as careful and free as Daenerys and Jon had been as children. Daenerys noticed his eyes following them, and paused to look at him thoughtfully.

 

“You want children, Jon?”

 

It was something the two of them rarely talked about now days, and while the pang of loss still rang through Daenerys and into Jon at the mention of children of their own, Daenerys didn’t crumple here, in the one safe place she had to cry out her loss in peace, she simply frowned, though upon watching the children again, she sighed, an almost dreamy look on her features.

 

Jon nodded, unsure of himself. “I… do. I don’t expect them, though. I would never lay with someone other than Tormund. I don’t like the idea of it.”

 

Daenerys shrugged. “I’ve heard tell that you don’t need to lie with a woman for children.”

 

Jon looked at her like she might be a little slow. “How does does the baby happen?”

 

Daenerys gave him the same look. “Well, you know it’s not the act itself that makes the baby, it’s the… fluids.”

 

Jon thought about that for a few seconds. “Oh.”

 

She nodded. “Yes. Oh. What I’m saying, is that you can still have children if you want them, you’ll just have to find a woman who wants to carry them.” She brightened up, looking eagerly at Jon now. “You could have children of Old Valerian blood, magical babies! Jon, you should do this, to forever intertwined the Starks of the North and the Old Valerian magic.”

 

Jon snorted, leaning away from her when she excitedly starting hitting his arm, nearly jumping up and down like a little girl. “Alright, alright. I’ll think about it. I can’t say I don’t think it’s a good idea, but I think we should wait till… after the war.”

 

Daenerys rolled her eyes at him. “That’s stupid. You might die in the war. Both of us might.”

 

“So what’s the point of having children now?”

 

Daenerys reached out and grabbed his hand this time, twining their fingers together. Hers still held the heat from her furs, and his were cold to touch. “What’s the point of not having children?”

 

He couldn’t think of a good answer to that.

 

“You only want me to have children so you can take them for your own.”

 

She smiled. “Our lives are completely entwined, what’s yours is mine.”

 

Jon turned to Daenerys with a smile, before becoming somber again. “I would ask something of you, but feel no obligation to say yes.”

 

Daenerys smiled up at him. “Sweet wolf, I could hardly deny you anything. Ask it, and if I can give it, it’s yours.”

 

Jon rather thought she should be more careful with a declaration like that, but he’s honestly not sure Daenerys would ever say that to someone else.

 

“The Free Folk have many mind adepts. People who can see into your thoughts and know your intentions. Of course, many of them need touch to actually read thoughts, though many of their people, even those who are not mind adept, can look at me and know right away that I have you in my mind. That I’m not alone. Tormund’s own daughters knew as soon as they saw me, though only one of them wishes to be a mind adept.”

 

Daenerys smiled. “That is a beautiful gift.”

 

Jon nodded. It really was. “Some of the Free Folk leaders seem to have… startled, upon the notion that you are to come to us with your own army, and though they know it to be a ways away, and that I hold you in high regard, they’ve expressed worry at your arrival. They’ve asked that we give them permission to let some mind adepts come with us into our dreams, so they could meet you, as to assuage their worries to be false.”

 

Daenerys nodded, slowly. “How would that work?”

 

“I need only to fall asleep and both of us shall let them in when they come.”

 

She still seemed a little nervous at the idea, though she had no reason not to trust Jon, so she eventually smiled at him again. “Of course, if you think it will help us.”

 

“I do.”

 

Being Jon and Daenerys was like being none other alive. They didn’t sleep. Not really.

 

A dream was supposed to happen fast, to be blurry and confusing, to barely be remembered and to rarely know you’re in one.

 

Jon and Daenerys didn’t dream like that. They had time to fill, hours of it, alone, while their bodies rested. Everything was as real to them as life itself, as remembered as their days.

 

They didn’t know what it was like to keep your eyes shut as went through the night.

 

They walked through snow back to the castle, eyes open in a sleeping world that bent itself to their will, and continued their night together, as if they never went to sleep in the first place.

 

***

 

The Godswood was rarely empty anymore. With this many people in and around the castle, building it back up stronger than before, and working inside, there was almost always someone there.

 

Jon wasn’t alone in the Godswood today. There were several people here he didn’t know at all, plus a maester that Jon had seen talking with Sansa recently. He wonders if he had been the maester of the Boltons, and if they should send him back to the Citadel. He’s sent ravens out to them before to inquire where Sam had gotten off to, and had gotten a reply from Sam himself saying that he’s training there and still has Gilly and Little Sam with him.

 

He’s happy Sam is safe, at least.

 

Tormund found him there, with nothing but a thin furred cloak around his shoulders to help keep the biting cold away. Already, there was too much snow in the closed off woods, and there were three men shoveling it into barrels before wheeling them over to the drains on the edges of the woods, to melt in the heated stone. Jon was pretty sure the water pipes were still broken below this area, but with the help of the Free Folk, they were heated with a fire so great Jon almost swore that the last dragons in the world surely weren’t dead, for their fire was great.

 

He had shared the memory of their great magic with Daenerys once, and she had sighed, and admitted that she was jealous of their magic, and wished she could perform it too. Jon wondered if his ability to withstand the cold was a magic too, and if he could possibly learn magic itself. He was getting up the courage to ask one of the magic users in the camp, but he’s a little afraid that asking how to make ice magic would seem a bit like the powers of the Walkers.

 

He was putting berries and nuts out on a round stone plate when Tormund came up to him and sat down next to him on the log closest to the Weirwood. “Do the gods really care if you offer them food?”

 

Jon shrugged. “I have no idea, to be honest. The birds like it, though. I’m not sure if my father ever cared that the gods got their offerings, but he cared about the birds.”

 

Tormund swung one leg over so he was straddling the wooden log, and pulled Jon back into his body. “One day I will find you in the snow, frozen solid and claiming you still don’t feel the cold.”

 

Jon gave him a cheeky grin, leaning in to kiss his chin. “I probably won’t feel it, even then.”

 

Tormund snorted, muttering into his neck about crazy southroners while he pulled Jon closer, using his bulk to shield Jon as he tried to warm him up.

 

“It would be a crime for you to freeze before the winter even set in, or before you should have a child.”

 

Jon paused, turning to look at Tormund slowly. “I… never meant that as a slight towards you in any way-”

 

Tormund snorted. “Why should I find offence in that? It’s not like either of us have the parts to try. I only mean that I’m upset you would talk to a healer of it before you would talk to me.”

 

Jon sighed, leaning up to kiss him until Tormund was begrudgingly smiling at him. “It’s not that I didn’t want you opinion, it’s that I… well, I had no idea how that sort of thing would go, and I wanted to ask.”

 

“And did you get the right answers?”

 

Jon shrugged. “They said I only needed to find a woman who wants to, and provide the material.”

 

Tormund nodded into the crook of his neck, mouthing at the cold skin there. “Then what’s the issue? Don’t know who to ask?”

 

Jon nodded slowly, as if thinking about it. “I am not sure how I feel about asking a woman to give me a child if we’re not together.”

 

Tormund frowned. “Do southroners not do that?”

 

Jon turned in his arms enough to look him in the eyes. “No. All children born out of wedlock, like me, are bastards, and not really all that liked.”

 

Tormund rolled his eyes. “No wonder you lot have so few children. Half the children born to the Free Folk are only alive because two adults decided they wanted a baby and had one. It’s why I’m not married to Daia and Betha’s mother. We wanted kids, we had them. If you only tell others that you’re looking for someone to carry children for you, eventually _someone_ will come to you and ask to be their mother.”

 

Jon thought about it, still nervous though, and he couldn’t figure out why. Maybe this was trepidation from when Daenerys had lost Rhaego. Sometimes he thought about that, and it made him sick inside. Often times, Rhaego had felt just as much Jon’s as hers. He couldn’t go through that again. He hoped he didn’t have to go through that again.

 

***

 

Of course, of all the Northern men that might question Jon, it was one Jon didn’t even personally know. Though, apparently, they knew quite well of him.

 

They were at another feast. Well, it wasn’t quite a feast, since the lords of the North still at Winterfell all had a standing invitation to the castle to share meals, but quite a few of them were there. They probably wouldn’t have had the larders to keep all of them fed if it weren’t for the magic running through the Free Folk camp and keeping them stocked. Jon wondered how much of their survival in the North itself was due to their magic, realizing that as a people, they were very dependant on it, as Winterfell had once been on the glass houses and hot springs to keep them warm. It was survival.

 

There was a drunk man towards the front of the room that Jon had previously been happy to ignore, quietly speaking with Tormund while he sat back in a chair too big that made him feel a little like a child, petting Ghost who was still begging for scraps from anyone who would listen to him.

 

“-and I don’t see why he’s a fucking _king_ in the first place after taking the black. He’s a Wall deserter and he should have been beheaded like one!”

 

If the man hadn’t been so drunk in the first place, he might have kept his mouth shut, but instead he kept rambling on even though most of the room had gone silent around him. Jon could feel Ghost pulling out of his arms before Jon could stop him, and he just barely got up in time to keep him from rounding the table to the man by wrapping his arms around the direwolf’s neck.

 

He looked over at Sansa in a silent plea to ask her for help to get the drunk idiot out of the great hall without ending up a blood stain on the floor, and both of them stilled at the man’s words.

 

“Even more, I don’t see why the lot of you would follow a _simpleton_ , even if he did get rid of Ramsay Bolton, doesn’t mean he’s not still a loon. Jon Snow has always had a broken mind, and winning one battle didn’t fix it. He still talks to himself when none of you are around, I bet, and he still talks of imaginary friends. I wouldn’t follow him to the privvy, much less as a leader.”

 

One of the other lords stood up with a snarl, looking pissed. “Sounds like you’ve been following him around plenty if you’ve got all that to say about him. He’s your _king_ , boy, watch your manners.”

 

The drunkard stood up on unsteady feet, looking upset. He spit at the ground. “As if I’d follow the poof around anywhere. He betrayed the Night’s Watch, fucked a wildling man, and now he’s looking to father some children with their bitches! As if his reputation as a crazy man isn’t enough reason not to crown him king. The insane Joffrey wasn’t enough, we’ve got to have one of our own, too?”

 

Jon clenched his jaw once and his fingers ‘slipped’ out of Ghost’s fur, letting the direwolf cross the room in seconds, pushing the man to the ground, who shouted and tried to struggle against him. Ghost got his jaw clamped down around the man’s neck, though without killing him. The man, drunk as he was, stilled.

 

Jon sighed, leaning forward against the table in front of him with one hand. “I suggest you leave the hall now, Ghost doesn’t warn more than once, and he only gives the one because I’ve trained him so well.”

 

When the drunk left the room, they all tried to act like they hadn’t heard any of what he’d said, for the sake of Jon being their king, but Jon rounded the table so he could lean against it from behind. The position suggested something of kinsmanship, but they could see the hilt of his sword sitting beside him on the table, and Ghost came to sit at his feet, teeth showing as if daring someone to speak, no longer begging for scraps and pets.

 

Jon gave them all a funny look, reaching down to put one hand on Ghost’s head, and turned to look at Sansa briefly. She looked a little sick, probably at the mention of Jon’s… mind… That had always been a sore spot with him and his siblings, it seems it still was. “I know what some of you think I don’t, about my abandoning the Wall, and I assure you, I broke no oaths. You all know that winter is here now, and with it, come the dead.”

 

Lord Glover stood now, shocked. “You mean to say the Walkers are coming? The Walkers are long gone, just a story to frighten children.”

 

Jon shook his head. He could hear Tormund standing from the seat behind him, looking hard at the men in the room. “The Walkers never left, they slept, and now they’re awake again. Ask any brother of the Night’s Watch, and anyone living in the Free Folk camp, and they will tell you how the dead rise as whytes in the Beyond, how they want to tear down every living thing in their path. Winter is here, and when the snow comes, so will they.”

 

The room broke back into chatter among them all, until another lord stood, though Jon hadn’t a clue who. “If the Walkers are coming, then what are we to do about it?”

 

Jon has been mulling this one over for about five years now, and he’s still not sure he knows the answer to that. He has some ideas though. “We’ve found two ways to kill a White Walker. Dragon glass, and Valerian steel. I think fire will take care of the whytes.”

 

Another man spoke up, but Jon wasn’t even sure who, since he’d been looking in the other direction. “Is that the only plan you’ve got?”

 

Jon looked up towards the ceiling. “I at least know how to kill them? You only just found out they’re still _there_ about two minutes ago, maybe, not judge me? We only found out how to kill them on accident, it’s not like our ancestors cared enough about us to warn us or anything.”

 

Tormund snorted, before covering up the laugh by glaring harder at anyone who dared look at Jon funny.

 

Lyanna Mormont got up from her spot near Jon’s left, and walked up to stand next to him. Ghost gave her a pleased nudge with his head, and the other lords in the room suddenly realized that not only were they about to get scolded by a ten year old again -and deserve it- but she was one of the few of them that won’t get attacked.

 

“Might I remind you all, that your _king_ , Jon Snow, has brought you back peace to the North. He’d led an entire race of people, over a hundred thousand, over sixty eight thousand of which can fight, below the Wall and destroyed the Boltons, not just driving them back, but ridding their house entirely. He did what none of the rest of you could, and he didn’t do it as a house, he did it as a _single_ person who realized they didn’t deserve to live above the Wall. Not only is Jon Snow a good man who wants to see all of us live out this long night without greed of power to seat him on a throne, but he has the knowledge to do it.

 

“If we want to survive, we need a leader who knows his enemy, and none of you know the Walkers. Not even I know the Walkers, but he does, and he wants them gone. You can all squabble about if he’s the right, or the true King in the North, but he’s the one who will lead us through this with our lives.”

 

Jon nodded. “She’s right. I don’t care for the title, and I won’t ask for a crown. If you want to get rid of me when this is all over, find the right replacement and I’ll give it up. I’m not here for glory. I went to the Wall because I wanted no glory or title. I _died_ at the Wall to save over a hundred thousand people who had the displeasure of being born on the wrong side of it. I served my oath with the Night’s Watch, and I broke no vows. I am here before you as nothing more than I was before I left.”

 

There were gasps around the room, and Jon wished he could have told them a different way, but there was no pleasant way to tell someone you’d risen from the death.

 

“What do you mean you died?”

 

Jon raised an eyebrow. “I mean, I was murdered by brother’s of the Night’s Watch. I was stabbed nine times in the chest before I bled out on the snow and was risen again by the Red Woman of Asshai. I am no whyte, but I have seen what comes after, and I don’t mean to go back to it anytime soon. I have brother no vows, because my watch is ended.”

 

The room got quiet after that, none of them sure what to say about that.

 

***

 

“Why did no one speak up when he called you a simpleton? When he called you insane?”

 

Jon sat up on the furs, not all that interested in lying down all of a sudden. He felt that sickening churn in his stomach, and knew it would be best not to lay down till it passes. “Why argue something you all believe?”

 

Tormund narrowed his eyes at Jon, sitting close enough to him on the furs that he could pull Jon into his arms. Jon sighed, nuzzling into his neck in an attempt to distract him. Tormund wasn’t distracted. “You’re not insane.”

 

Jon nodded. “No, I’m not. But everyone in the North who’s ever met Catelyn and Ned Stark thinks so. When… Dany has been in my head my entire life, Tormund, she’s always been with me. There was once a time, before I was old enough to know the difference, that I would speak about her. There was a time that I thought all people shared their dreams with someone else. As a child, I spoke often of her, and the men of the North know that. When I was six, it was cute, that I had an imaginary friend who I dreamt of. When I was fifteen, it was sad, that I my mind was so far lost to me that I still dreamt of a person who wasn’t there.”

 

“But she is there.”

 

“I know. You know. My father knew even. He was the only one who ever believed me. He said, before he was beheaded, that he tried to stop Robert Baratheon from ordering her assassination. It obviously didn’t work, but my father knew who she was, and didn’t let him hurt her. Those who live in the North, who rarely hear the Targaryen name anymore, they don’t believe me. They all say I’m crazy.”

 

“That’s stupid.”

 

“You know, Lady Catelyn used to use me as an example of my father’s benevolence, that he allowed his bastard and simpleton son to live with them, because he was such a good man. Lady Catelyn used to pretty much go out of her way to prove that I couldn’t survive on my own, that I could barely be _left_ on my own for I would never be able to take care of myself.”

 

Tormund frowned. “I don’t like her. She didn’t treat you well.”

 

Jon shrugged, unsure what to say about it really. It happened. It’s all he knew how to say. Sam said the same thing whenever anyone mentioned how his father treated him before he was sent to the Wall as well. “I think that’s why I went to the Wall. Uncle Benjen wasn’t ever around enough to know for himself if I was a simpleton or not, but he always told me my sword fighting was better than most, and we got along. I wanted to be closer to him and away from her. I wanted to prove that I didn’t only live because of their benevolent nature.”

 

Tormund pulled him closer, not letting go. “You can survive without them. You’re here now. Dying doesn’t count, it didn’t stay.”

 

Jon snorted into Tormund’s neck, a little smile playing on his lips. “I know. I miss him, you know?”

 

“Your uncle?”

 

Jon shook his head, a tear leaking out before he could close his eyes against it. “My father. He was the only one who believed me. He was also the only one who ever showed me any affection. I miss him.”

 

***

 

It was strange to talk to people about possibly carrying his children, but Tormund couldn’t help but think that Jon was a little more nervous than he ought to be.

 

“Does something about women being pregnant disturb you, Jon?”

 

Jon looked over at Tormund with an uncomfortable look, and Tormund immediately knew he was lying before he said anything. “Of course not.”

 

Tormund crossed his arms at him until Jon gently sat back on his feet, no longer reaching for the book at the top shelf in the quiet library. The library was being rebuilt, and there were still many good ones there. He was hoping to find an interesting novel that might attract Daia’s attention for more than a minute to help her learn to read. So far, she was not liking it at all. Jon had almost given up on Tormund entirely. At least, for now.

 

“I… I don’t know what to tell you. We never saw many pregnant women at the Wall, nor children for that matter. I guess, maybe it’s still too clear in my memory for me to be comfortable with it. Maybe in my mind, I can feel how uncomfortable Daenerys is with it.”

 

Tormund watched him for another ten seconds or so, before sitting down in a chair at the table. “What memory?”

 

Jon shifted nervously in his spot, feeling a heavy pang below his stomach, where a womb would be on a girl, and wondered, not for the first time, if him and Daenerys could share traumatic events physically. He wondered now if she could feel the knives piercing her chest as he’d felt it in him. He didn’t realize he’d let his mind wander until he felt gentle fingers on his elbows, gently moving his hands down from rubbing at his chest, and was pulled into Tormund’s arms.

 

Tormund’s arms were solid, and it took Jon another minute of blinking on rote while he started at Tormund’s shoulder, till he could hear the quiet whispers against his ear, and sagged against Tormund with a barely muffled sob. He was thankful then that the Free Folk didn’t often read, for the library was almost completely empty other than them, and anyone else there avoided them to continue on with their own reading.

 

“Whatever happened was in the past, it cannot hurt you now.”

 

Jon pressed one hand tight to his lower stomach, hovering over an imaginary womb. No, Daenerys’s womb. That’s what hurt when he thought of it.

 

“It still hurts. I don’t think it will stop.”

 

Tormund pulled him over to the table so he could gather Jon in his arms and rock him like he was a babe himself. “Tell me what hurts, I want to help make it stop.”

 

“She lost her baby. She lost it to a witch who cursed her and pulled out a stillborn baby who was deformed and dead. She lost her baby and it felt like,” his voice was quiet, almost a whisper, “it felt as though I had lost mine.”

 

Tormund didn’t reply to that, not knowing how to make _that_ better yet, but he knew where to start. He’d bring Jon to a mind healer as soon as he could, and get them to help Jon as best as they could, even if they could only set his mind to ease.

 

And they would need a child. Jon would need that calm in him, to hold a healthy baby in his arms, before he would stop worrying that a pregnancy would end in tears. Jon wanted a child, and Tormund needed to help him calm down enough to be a father.

 

So, simple really. These were worries he could focus on now, instead of his constant usual fear of them all dying at the hands of the White Walkers. The simple fear of figuring out how to raise a family. That he could handle.


	3. Static Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the beginning of this, it's set in season 1 episode 9-10, when Dany loses both Drogo and Rhaego. It shows specifically that Jon went so deep in his mind during that time, that he literally forgot that he and Dany aren't the same person. This caused an EXTREMELY traumatic event for him where he isn't fully able to compartmentalize the incident itself, so it hurts him as if it had happened to him and not her.
> 
> Satin is very worried about him.

_It was in the middle of practice that someone noticed Jon. He wasn’t supposed to be outside right now, he was supposed to be attending Jeor in meetings right now, but when someone noticed him, he was curled up in on himself in a corner of the training yard, the wrapping on his burn hand taken off, and he was scratching at the blisters with a blank look on his face._

 

_It was only the saving grace of Jeor Mormont that Ser Alliser was sent to King’s Landing when this had happened, because the other brothers could only imagine the sort of torture he would put Jon through if he had been the one to find him like this._

 

_“Call Mormont, I think he’s having a fit! He won’t stop scratching his hand, it’s bleeding.”_

 

_It was no secret to those who have grown up in the North, that Lord Eddard Stark’s bastard son, was touched in the head, as far as any of them could tell. This was the first time the men of the Night’s Watch have had any sort of proof that it might be true. It’s why they made him a steward, and it’s why he wasn’t to be trusted to go North of the Wall with the other rangers, even if he did have the most experience with the cold, and a sword._

 

_When they got Jon -shaking and unresponsive- into his room, he wasn’t looking so good. Not at all. “Does he have a fever?”_

 

_Aemon was lead into the room following Jeor with Sam at his side, who looked concerned. Satin was trying to get Jon under his covers, and Jon twitched away from his hold, curling in on himself and reaching up to push his hair out of his eyes, which left a smear of blood across his cheek and neck. “I don’t know if it’s a fever, his hands are freezing, and his burn is bleeding pretty bad.”_

 

_Aemon was helped over to the side of Jon’s bed, and he carefully reached for him as they sat, instead of curling away from him like he has with anyone else who’s tried to touch him so far, Jon sat back and gave Aemon a long look, as if seeing him for the first time. He spoke._

 

_“That’s not the common tongue.” Jeor crossed his arms as he studied the shell shocked teen, watching as Jon leaned into Aemon’s hand as it slid past his cheek and to his neck._

 

_Aemon nodded. “No. It is his voice, but her words. He speaks through another’s mind. These are the words of the horselords of the Great Grass Sea. Dothraki.”_

 

_Sam and Satin both shared a look, concerned, Jeor looked hard. Angry even. “Who’s words?”_

 

_Aemon’s sightless eyes looked into Jon’s for a long moment. Jeor wondered how far Aemon had gotten into Jon’s head. When Aemon finally pulled back, he looked distraught, letting Jon curl in on himself on the bed. “My great great grandniece. I have lost another family member before he was born, and gained another I never knew was kin to me.”_

 

_Jeor was quiet a long moment. “Kin? Jon?”_

 

_A silent tear dropped from Aemon’s eye, and he nodded. “Sam, help me now, we must get his hand bandaged again. His mind is far from us now, and he must not be left alone until he knows who he is once more.”_

 

_Satin spoke up, words quiet. “I’ll watch over him.”_

 

_Aemon nodded. “Thank you, dear boy.”_

 

_***_

 

_It was that night when Sam came to him after Aemon had gone to sleep. Jeor watched the boy closely. “You’ve something to ask me?”_

 

_“You knew, right away, when Aemon called him kin, you knew he was a Targaryen. Which Targaryen?”_

 

 _Aemon watched Sam for a long moment before sighing. “Everyone in the North knows Eddard Stark-” he paused, looking sad, “_ knew _, Eddard Stark. There was no man more honorable, no man who loved his children more, even the bastard he took home with him at the end of the war, who he strangely never once asked to legitimize. Of course, now I know why he never once let Robert Baratheon see him, for all know the rage of the king when confronted with a Targaryen. Jon is not Ned Stark’s bastard, he’s his nephew.”_

 

_Sam was quiet for a few seconds. “Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen.”_

 

_Jeor nodded. “You know your history.”_

 

_“It was the Mad King killing Jon’s uncle and grandfather that started the war in the first place, and it was Rhaegar stealing Lyanna that pushed it to it’s edge.”_

 

_Jeor gave Sam a hard look. “And now, it was Joffrey, who might not even be the right king, killing all the men from Ned Stark’s party, taking him and his daughters captive, and now taking Ned’s head, that started this war, and we don’t yet know what will push this one to it’s edge. So far, I know of at least five different kings of the realm, and this one is going to be bloodier than the last. The Starks are honorable people, but ones like Ned and Jon are few and far between, and I have the feeling more will be gone before this is over.”_

 

_Sam was clenching and unclenching the furs in his hand. “We need to keep Jon from running. He will if given a chance. Too much honor, not enough sense.”_

 

_Jeor nodded. “Jon is experiencing a very traumatic event right now. I’ve had the other brothers told he’s taken a fever, and confined to quarters. That might not be the best thing, since half of them think he’ll die, but it will do for now. I plan on taking him Beyond, if he’s well enough by the time we need to go. It will keep him out of trouble.”_

 

_Sam nodded. “When do you plan on telling him?”_

 

_Jeor’s jaw clenched, and he shook his head. “I don’t think I will. Right now, this will do him more harm than good. More pain than relief. He won’t be told until things have become safe again. Maybe if that other Targaryen girl across the Narrow Sea ever makes it here, we’ll tell him, if only to give him the peace of family. From what I know, Ned is convinced they already know each other. Benjen told me, before he went Beyond.”_

 

 _Sam winced at the reminder of the loss of Jon’s uncle. Jon had more reason than most to want revenge, to utterly fall apart because of the loss of so much family. Sam doesn’t even_ have _this much family, nor has he lost any. “If it was the loss of a baby that made him like this, what if he just never comes back to himself? If I were him, I wouldn’t want to come back out.”_

 

 _“Aemon says… it wasn’t just the loss of a child, it was a child both he and his soulmate shared. Not_ his _, but close enough that the loss is like that of his own. I’m not fully sure what Maester Aemon means, but there are those who say the Targaryens possessed magic beyond measure, and if so, Jon would have that too.” He looked off into the fire, eyes far away. “If Jon does not come back to us, we will care for him, just like any ailing member of the Night’s Watch, and if he’s still as he is now at the end of this war, we’ll send him home to his family if they will consent to taking care of him, if only to give him peace.”_

 

_“I thought only death could release a brother from his oath?”_

 

 _Jeor nodded. “A death, yes, though what can you do when a man’s mind is so far lost that he’s unable to care for himself. Maybe it’s not always the_ brother’s _death that releases him. I still hold out hope that Jon will return to us of his own mind.”_

 

_Sam nodded once, not replying to that. His throat felt thick._

 

_***_

 

_It was that first night that Jon was found outside of his room in the cold, with no shoes and bare hands._

 

_Ghost had tried for a few minutes to tempt the teen back inside his room, but Jon had only pet the direwolf on the head once and spoke words that Ghost had never heard, so the wolf broke from Jon’s grasp -his weak, gentle grasp- and stalked back to their room, giving the other human there a nip to his right hand. Not enough to hurt, but enough for the other black haired steward at the Wall to wake up with a gasp. He was a smart one, and it barely took him a few seconds to realize Jon was no longer in the room with him, letting out a little curse and following Ghost out to the balcony. He found Jon there, feet bare on the frozen wood, and hands clenched in cold snow on the railing. His left hand was still wrapped thankfully, and no new blood coming out of the wrappings._

 

_“Jon? Jon, we need to go back inside.”_

 

 _Jon looked over at Satin with tears in his eyes. “_ My sun and stars is dead. _”_

 

_Satin could hear the sorrow in his voice, though he didn’t know what the words meant, spoke in the guttural tones of the Dothraki language. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means. It will be okay, Jon.”_

 

 _“_ Nothing will be okay, until the sun sets in the East, and rises in the West. _”_

 

_Satin reached out to put an arm on Jon’s own to try and pull him back to his room, and was shocked to find Jon’s arms wrapping around his neck, a choked off sob going into Satin’s neck. Satin hushed him, a hand running down Jon’s back soothingly till he could pry Jon off to put him back to bed, this time staying up while Jon lost the battle with his eyes, closing them and falling back to sleep._

 

_***_

 

_It was three days later that Jon came out of the fugue he’d found himself in. Towards the end, they’d had several scares when Jon had supposedly tried to set himself on fire, saying it would be the only way to hatch the eggs._

 

_Aemon had told them that even if Jon was a Targaryen, he could never survive setting himself ablaze. He wasn’t born with that power._

 

_Thankfully, the next morning, Jon was back to his usual self. He sat up in his bed, looking down in confusion when he felt an arm around his waist, and found Satin’s arm tucked around him while the other boy finally seemed to wake. “It’s alright, Jon, go back to sleep. It’ll all be over soon.”_

 

_Jon blinked down at the other teen, who was tiredly scrubbing at his eyes. “What will be over soon?”_

 

_Satin went still, before sitting up properly, looking at Jon in shock. “You’re back! Wait here, I need to tell the Lord Commander.”_

 

_Jon was too tired and disoriented to try and stop him, so he sat back in the bed, feeling sore all over. He wonders why that was. All he remembers was trying to comfort Daenerys, and it’s quite possible that he’d forgotten he was himself and not her for a long while._

 

_Satin came skidding into the great hall at breakfast. “Lord Commander, Jon is ba- awake, he’s awake and speaking and his fever is broken.”_

 

_He stopped himself from saying ‘back’ knowing fully well that most eyes in the room were on him right now, not wanting to fuel the rumors that had been going around, some brothers thinking that Jon had deserted them when he’d come down with his fever, up until the night before when he’d appeared in the courtyard, trying to set himself ablaze while others watched. They had managed to get him away from any fire before Satin could give him a bath to wash away the lingering torch fluid. Jeor stood from the main table without pause. “Does he remember anything?”_

 

_Satin shrugged, following Jeor out the doors. “I’m not sure. He doesn’t seem to, from what I know. He was confused, but speaking the common tongue again.”_

 

_Jeor nodded, heading into Jon’s room ahead of Satin, and finding Jon sitting on the bed, mostly under his direwolf, who seemed ecstatic to have him back._

 

***

 

It was just after Daenerys had landed in Dragonstone that Jon got a raven from the Wall.

 

“My king, you’ve a letter from the Wall.” The squire handed Jon the little white scroll at breakfast in the great hall. Jon took it from him and looked over at Sansa to his left, who looked curious. Tormund and Ygritte ignored him, neither of them able to read, so not much of a care to them other than what it might say.

 

Jon unrolled it and nearly felt his heart stop again, glad he was already sitting.

 

“What is it, Jon?”

 

Jon tried once, twice, and a third time, to say something, before silently handing over the scroll. The others in the room seemed truly curious now, even the others at other tables. Sansa read it through no less than twice before standing, getting the attention of all of those sitting at the other tables who were not already attentive to them.

 

“Bran Stark has been found by the brothers of the Night’s Watch. We must ride out now.” She walked away with a flourish, leaving Jon to gape after her for a moment before Sansa came back and hit him on the head. “Get up, you’re going too.”

 

Jon scrambled to get up with Tormund and Ygritte following after him, looking amused. It wasn’t until Jon was tying a bag to the saddle of his horse that Lyanna Mormont followed them out.

 

“I shall come with you both.”

 

Jon looked around his horse to see the young girl. She had Daia at her side, as was usual nowadays.

 

Sansa shook her head. “No, we need you here.”

 

Lyanna raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

 

Sansa nodded. “Yes. You’re in charge while we’re gone. I’m more than sure you’ll be up to the task. Look to Mance for anything needed with the Free Folk and you know how to run a noble house. More than any of the men who turned us away when we meant to go to war with the Boltons.”

 

The lords in question, who had followed them all out, all looked embarrassed, and Ygritte was downright cackling as she mounted the horse she’d taken to. Sansa threw her an amused smile before moving to make sure they had everything they needed while gone.

 

The lords all looked to Jon, as if to ask him to correct his sister, though Lyanna just ignored him, knowing what he’d say before he said it. “It’s not like she’s wrong. Do as she says.”

 

It seemed, a few of them might be regretting declaring him King in the North. He rolled his eyes, and got on his own horse. Tormund was already mounted and looking bored with the southron lords. “Are we ready to go, now?”

 

Sansa nodded, and the four left the castle with a small party of others to travel with them.

 

***

 

When they had gotten to Castle Black, Edd was waiting for them with some others in the courtyard. He looked up when Jon came through and gave him a little smile. “Your brother is waiting in your old rooms. He has a girl with him, Meera Reed, she says her name is.”

 

Jon nodded, taking to the ground and stalking up the stairs to the balcony with Ghost at his side, Sansa following close behind.

 

This was the first time Jon had seen his little brother awake since he was pushed from that tower, and Jon was floored for a moment, at how grown up he looks since then. Sansa moved first, coming to the side of the bed where Meera was sitting, and sat next to her, leaning in so she could pull Bran into a hug.

 

Things were finally coming together again.

 

He was watching from the doorway when Meera looked up and saw him, and for the first time since she lost Jojen and Hodor, she felt grief in her chest too heavy to bear. She got up from the chair and pulled Jon back out onto the balcony, leaving Sansa and Bran alone for the moment. Jon looked between her and the room before swallowing once. "Jojen?"

 

Meera shook her head, unable to talk for a minute. "He did not make it."

 

Jon nodded, jaw clenched tight for a moment as he took in the loss of yet another brother. This one, that he called godbrother. They didn't speak for a long time, just standing together in shared grief of so much loss.

 

***

 

It was later on that day that Satin pulled Jon aside when he went to get them food from the great hall.

 

“Jon, I must speak to you.”

 

Jon watched Satin for a few moments before nodding, letting the other man pull him away from the others by his hand. Satin had never been afraid of being tactile with any of the other brothers, as long as they got along well enough, having grown up where he did, but since those days he’d spent at Jon’s side, keeping him still in the night and from wandering, Satin had become much more tactile than that.

 

“You have something to say?”

 

They were in the Lord Commander’s office. It was probably Edd’s office now, and Satin seemed to be his new steward. Satin nodded. “Yes. Jon, do you remember when you came down with fever that first year, after your father…”

 

He paused, noticing the way that Jon almost caved in on himself again. Jon nodded. “Yes. I don’t remember much of it, but they said I tried to set myself on fire at the end.”

 

Satin nodded. “You did. I’d never been so scared in my life. You were soaking in lighter fluid, I had to clean you so I could be sure you wouldn’t light up anyways.”

 

Jon nodded. “What of it? It’s over and done with, I’ve not have any… episodes, like that, since.”

 

“Maester Aemon. He uh… he looked into your mind, I guess, in the same way that Targaryen’s possess their magic, and he told us of your soulmate’s child.”

 

Jon pressed further in on himself, and Satin wished so badly, that he could drop this, and never mention it again, for he could see how much it still _hurt_ him. How badly is was wrecking Jon inside to think of. Jon nodded, stiffly. “Yes.”

 

Satin went right for it, not wanting to cause Jon any further pain. “He said that your mind was kin to him. That you were family.”

 

Jon paused, before looking back up at Satin, uncurling on himself a little. “Family?”

 

Satin nodded. “You were not Ned Stark’s bastard son. You were his nephew.”

 

Jon thought about that for a long time, before his eyes started welling up with tears now. “When Rhaegar kidnapped Lyanna…”

 

He trailed off, and thought Jon wasn’t looking, Satin nodded. “Yes.”

 

“...he… Daenerys is my aunt. She is my father’s sister.”

 

Satin didn’t know much about that, but he nodded. “Yes.”

 

Jon looked up with a frown. “Why was I not told before?”

 

“Commander Mormont thought if you knew, it would only make things harder. He said he would eventually tell you, when the war was over and you were safe. I guess… it doesn’t make much difference now. You still have a war to fight, all of us do, but you deserve to know, in case you don’t make it. In case any of us who know don’t survive. There is still a war to come, but you deserve to know this.”

 

Jon looked out the window in the room for a long time, before finally turning to Satin again. “The Free Folk are my kin in more ways than one, I guess.”

 

Satin nodded. “Yes, they are. I’m glad you have so many now.”

 

Jon nodded. “Thank you.”

 

***

 

They got back to Winterfell with news that there had been no movement yet from Beyond, and the Wall was silent so far. At this point, all the houses in the North knew the Wall was no longer what was holding the Walkers back, but simply the first warning sign that they all needed to be ready to fight.

 

It was going to be a long winter.

 

Bran’s old room, like most of Winterfell, was a bit broken. Jon slept in a tent in the Free Folk camp with Tormund at night, and occasionally, his daughters, so it didn’t make much of a difference to him, who was used to the cold and found the camp there to be more than warm.

 

Sansa had thought about having Winter Town rebuilt, but she had moved that idea to the end of winter when they had the time for it. The magic of the Valerian peoples would be enough to keep them going through the cold till they could have homes of their own.

 

Bran and Meera rarely left each other’s sides, Jon often wondered if they feared that which exists in the lone, or if they really couldn’t barely to be parted from each other.

 

They were all sitting in the private dining room meant for the ruling lord’s of Winterfell. Bran and Meera seemed overly enthusiastic about any meal set in front of them, rarely making complaint and often making requests for certain foods that the kitchen was only too pleased to give them.

 

“So, Uncle Benjen just… left you there?”

 

Bran nodded, reaching for another dinner roll. Jon wondered if living that long Beyond made everyone lose any ideas of table manners, for Meera was almost worse than Tormund, though Bran still kept a sense of self to him, mainly because he couldn’t stand to reach further than what was within distance.

 

Meera’s father had been called to them, Howland Reed had yet to show up for anything to Winterfell, having been in a state of grief since the loss of both of his children. The only thing that had gotten him to come now, was the promise of Meera still being hale and healthy. They whispered all the way to Winterfell that when Howland got word of Jojen’s loss, he had wailed in his grief, loud enough that the whole of the Neck heard him. Of course, it wasn't possible, but Jon knew that his godfather would be in low spirits when he got there, still reeling from his youngest child's loss.

 

“Yes, he said he could not pass the magics of the Wall, until it was taken down. He is still on our side, though his body is closer to dead than living.”

 

Jon nodded with a little sigh, thankful to know he was still… around. He knew better than most, that death was not always the end.

 

Sansa gave a little hum as she stood up to refill both Bran and Meera’s cups with a berry juice the Free Folk said made children grow strong. If nothing, it tasted good enough that neither young teens argued.

 

“How did you two survive so long up there?”

 

Meera shrugged, eating another piece of bacon covered in egg. “Hunted, when there were animals. There stopped being animals after a while though, too far north. Ate moss then. The children of the forest took care of the rest.”

 

Ygritte made a funny noise, stealing the last sausage before Tormund could. “You Starks are damn hard to kill, you know that?”

 

Bran snickered. “Oh, I think we know. I don’t think anyone has ever killed or hurt a Stark and not gotten what was coming to them.”

 

It was a threat, and they all heard it. Sansa raised her glass to him in silent toast, smiling.

 

***

 

It was down in Dragonstone, that Samwell Tarly first met the dragon queen, standing in her courts with Gilly at his side and Little Sam on his hip. He let the baby play with his robes without complaint while he stared at the queen. After standing down a White Walker, there was no king or queen that could startle him, though he did have to admit, she was trying her hardest, in a ruthless Targaryen sort of way.

 

She had a light smile on her face, almost as if she liked him, though you could see the ready scorn in her eyes in case she decided she didn’t like him.

 

“You’ve requested to speak of coming North with us.” It wasn’t a question. Sam nodded.

 

“Yes. I have the feeling you and I are going to the same place.”

 

She raised an eyebrow, sharing a look with Tyrion, who was still studying Sam.

 

“You’re a brother of the Night’s Watch.”

 

Sam nodded. “I am. I would leave for the North on my own, but I never liked traveling by sea, and King’s Landing is too dangerous for me to travel through.”

 

Daenerys nodded. “So you simply want safe travel back to the Wall?”

 

Sam shook his head. “No. I’m going to Winterfell, and I will eventually need to come back to the Citadel to finish my training to become a Maester.”

 

Tyrion frowned, looking at the baby. “Forgive me, but last I checked, both Maesters and brother of the Night’s Watch take a vow of celibacy. You have a child.”

 

Sam hummed, shrugging. “I do.”

 

Daenerys looked amused, the same way Jon always used to be. It was amazing to stand in front of her, there were things that he could see in her that no one else would notice she shared with Jon if Sam hadn’t known they grew up closer than siblings. “You know, we’ll be traveling with an army. An army that’s going to be attacking King’s Landing.”

 

Sam nodded, rubbing the suddenly fussing baby’s back and getting him to calm down again. “Yes. Well, war is war, and people travel with armies all the time. Best to travel with the ones you know will win.”

 

She gave him another smile, genuine now. “Am I correct in thinking you are Samwell Tarly?”

 

Sam nodded. “I am.”

 

She nodded, pleased. “A brother to my kin is brother to me. You shall both have safe passage.”

 

“Thank you, my queen.”


	4. Wolf Pack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reasons I am not writing down the actual meeting with Jon and the surrogates who are gonna carry his kids: writing is fucking hard, if I decide to write it, I'll put it in a one shot later.
> 
> Tormund thinks he's Jon's therapist, which mostly consists of staring at Jon until Jon decides to talk, and making grunting noises in reply until Jon works out what's bothering him himself. It's cute.

When Daenerys’s army started moving upwards, it was with the Martell and Tyrell armies at her side, and she knew right away there would be resistance. Queen Cersei was a harsh woman, and the loss of her children had not made her any kinder. But apparently, burning the lower half of King’s Landing down, hadn’t done her any favors. The people themselves were eager to get rid of her.

 

Daenerys was in a tent with Jorah, Grey Worm, Missandei and Sam Tarly. Sam, was currently absorbed in a book he’d apparently taken with him from the Citadel upon his leave to join her army in the march North. Gilly and Little Sam had left to be with some friends she had made. She didn’t much care for planning and fighting, but there were other women with children here that she could talk to.

 

Jorah, didn’t leave Sam’s attention. His arm had grey scale on it. It wasn’t very far up, but he’s shown a few times that it was a new thing. He was still getting used to the fact that though he hadn’t lost the hand, it was mostly slow moving and barely useful now.

 

Tyrion Lannister came into the tent with what looked like a map under his right arm, and a slightly sour look on his face. “I don’t know how you convinced Dothraki riders to cross the Narrow Sea, but you should talk to them before they start something that will get you in trouble. It’s risky enough, bringing them to Westeros, here they’re considered barbarians, with no homes and nothing but their horses, but they speak of turning those who oppose them into slaves.”

 

Daenerys hummed a little, looking up from the map she had been studying with Jorah’s help. It was of the North.

 

“I know that. I will speak to them. Slavery will not come back to Westeros, and I will remove it wherever I can.”

 

Jorah’s working hand was gently tracing a little island in the Northern part of the map, and both Sam and Tyrion recognized it as Bear Island. He wouldn’t be allowed to return home. Jeor had said himself before Tyrion had left the Wall, that he had disgraced their family, and Sam wasn’t dumb enough to believe anyone in the North would be so forgiving to a slight against them.

 

The North was a hard place.

 

Tyrion crossed his arms as he studied the map with a frown. “We all know why we need to go North next, but shouldn’t we focus on taking King’s Landing first? If my _sister_ gets her way, she’ll do the same thing as the Mad King and take the entire Capitol with her, and we need to stop that.”

 

“Do you not trust your brother to kill her the same way he did the Mad King if she goes that far?”

 

It was almost a jibe to Jaime’s honor, and Tyrion would have been offended at it coming from anyone else. He closed his eyes for a moment, and Daenerys could have sworn he was already grieving for the loss of the one sibling that had liked him. He sighed. “I trust he’ll end her, and I think she always knew one of us would be her death, but I wonder if he’ll do it in time to save the people.”

 

Daenerys looked a little upset at that, but resigned in the same way Tyrion was. They needed to take King’s Landing before something big happened.

 

***

 

Jon found Daia alone in the Godswood, crying.

 

When Daia cried, it sounded like broken little sobs that wrenched Jon’s heart and put her father on guard like he might kill someone at any moment. Jon had heard her cry twice, once when she thought she had lost her mother’s brother in a raid, and she had clung to Jon for hours while they waited for the healers for see if they could save him. It had been less than a year after Jon had first joined them. Daia was a child who was unafraid to touch, and even in that short time she knew him, she’d never been afraid to be near him. Tormund had said it was her ability to see his mind, and know his intentions.

 

Betha was different. She was honestly terrified of touching anyone she didn’t know. She had told Jon that it was like invading their minds without permission. Apparently, a lot of mind adept’s agreed with her on that. It had taken till that same incident before Betha could reach for his hand in the same way she was unafraid of touching Tormund and their mother. To Betha, touch was reserved for those she knew wouldn’t be angry to have her in their mind. Unlike Daia, she didn’t have the ability to not read the thoughts of those she touched. It made her distant physically, from the other children. Jon had never been a stranger to sharing his mind with someone else, he thinks that might have lead to her to finally trusting him.

 

The other time she had cried around him, was after Jon had come back to the Free Folk, after he had died. Well, first she had thrown a rock at his head, and then she had thrown herself at him, unable to hold herself back from the desperate sobs as she refused to let him go. Sansa had seemed the most shocked out of them all at that, but Jon had known that _someone_ had to have been pissed at him for dying. There was always someone that would resent it. Jon has only heard her cry twice, though he’s sure there had to have been other times he didn’t see. Children cry, it’s one of the only ways they know how to express their feelings.

 

This though… this didn’t sound like that. This wasn’t the desperate sobbing she’d let out with the possibility of loss had come, this was… this was something else.

 

Jon watched her closely as he came to stand next to the weirwood she hugged close to her chest, leaning against it so he could reach out and run a hand through her soft blonde hair. It was a ragged mess, like she hadn’t had the might that morning, to sit still and allow her mother to tame it as she usually did. There were no braids holding it back from her face today, only knots that made Jon almost smile as he remembered how Arya’s hair had always knotted up that way when Catelyn hadn’t gotten the chance to force her to brush it. “What’s wrong, little flower?”

 

She sagged against the tree, looking exhausted and the sobs dying in her throat, looking tired, and aged beyond her years. Jon sat down at the base of the tree and tugged her close enough to tuck under the warmth of his arm. She slid closer to him with a big gust of air coming from her chest, too worn out for at least a minute, to talk. Jon just patiently ran his fingers through her hair, working out the knots while he waited for her voice to come back.

 

She sounded frustrated and tired when it came back to her. She shook his head against his arm, as if disbelieving. “I’ve never seen a weirwood seed.”

 

Jon’s hand paused, hand still in her hair, as he thought that one over, before going back to work with her soft hair. “No. The children of the forest planted the weirwood so long ago, that they don’t make seeds anymore. This one is too old to make seeds. There won’t be any new of them, I’m afraid.”

 

This time, the sob escaping her throat was real, even as she tried to hold it back, and Jon was almost joining it with his own. He could feel a sorrow in his chest, and it wasn’t his own, and it wasn’t Daenerys’s, this was a pure desperate sorrow for the loss of the trees, and he could feel it coming from Daia.

 

To a girl who loved plants as much as she loved the lives of her family, this felt like a loss too great to bare, and Jon could feel it as she felt it, curled up against the base of the weirwood with her in his arms.

 

Daia’s sobs tapered off into stillness, and Jon thought it felt almost like she was trying to keep him together by pulling herself back together. She looked up at the face of the wood, and reached up to run her fingers along the sap of it’s tears. “No wonder they all cry. They’re all so alone, and they’re the last there will ever be. I cried before, because I wanted to know it’s sorrow, to see how I could help it. I’m not sure I can.”

 

Jon pulled her closer again, trying to let her take what comfort she needed from him, trying to make her feel strong again.

 

Between their bodies, in Daia’s little hands, curled up against his chest, where his scars were under his clothes, she could feel the forming of a seed, the size of a walnut, and she recognized the gentle, almost tentative touch, of another person’s magic, and she reached out with her own, pulling on the string till it was coming out of Jon, and wrapped it around the growing seed in her hand. They both looked down at it in shock as it grew strong in her hand, shrouded in a little cloud of fire orange, and ice blue, until it cleared, and they could see a little seedling coming out from a crack in it.

 

“Oh.”

 

Jon nodded, shocked. “Yeah.”

 

“I think _that’s_ how you make the seedlings.”

 

“Yeah, probably.”

 

***

 

It was a day later when Ghost came back to the castle after being ‘missing’ for a week. There have been Free Folk who have spotted him here and there, but for some reason he’s been gone from the castle all that time.

 

Jon had woken up in the middle of the night before when something had licked his cheek, and had sat up in a daze as he stared eye to eye with a direwolf. A direwolf, who was _not_ Ghost at all. Ghost was a white wolf, but this one, she was pure black as he had been white, and after hearing a whine come from outside their tent, she had slipped out without a sound other than gentle padding across the heavy furs on the ground, and Jon had been staring after her, still half asleep while Tormund lay undisturbed next to him.

 

It had been jarring, and the next morning, Ghost had finally returned to the castle. With the black direwolf at his side.

 

“Well, she’s pregnant, and from the looks of it, it’s Ghost’s. Probably. If not, he’s decided they are.”

 

Jon looked between Davos on the ground next to the heavy looking direwolf, and Ghost, who was sitting next to him at the table, looking proud of himself. “How far along is she?”

 

Davos moved cautiously, not wanting to spook the wolf, and put a hand on her stomach. She didn’t mind, looking almost amused at the silly human for his actions. “She’ll probably give birth within the month. Looks like there will be more direwolves below the Wall now.”

 

Jon nodded, not taking his eyes off of Ghost, who leaned up to lick a stripe up Jon’s nose, making Jon cringe at the wet feel of it. “Thanks.”

 

He named her Shadow, and Sansa and Bran had rolled their eyes at him and called him dramatic, though neither argued, knowing it fit.

 

***

 

“You’ll have to learn not to be afraid of pregnant women soon.”

 

Jon looked at Tormund with a glare, right eye twitching once before he let it fall again, looking down at his hands almost passively. “I’m not afraid of them.”

 

Tormund shook his head, looking unamused. “Not afraid of women, no. Afraid of the pregnancy maybe. I guess it makes sense though, you don’t want anything bad to happen. You need to learn to trust that it won’t happen here. We’re a strong people, and a hard birth is rare.”

 

Jon grit his teeth for a minute, picking at a soft doll a woman had given him this morning, saying it would be good luck for a baby. “They all say that magic keeps the babies strong. That children rarely die… it was a witch that took Rhaego from Daenerys.”

 

Tormund nodded slowly. “She didn’t like Daenerys, I assume.”

 

“No. Daenerys had thought she saved her from being raped when Drogo raided their village. Dothraki are… they did things a different way.”

 

Tormund nodded. “Just because she had magic, doesn’t mean that all magic near pregnant women will be a danger to them.”

 

Jon sighed, looking up towards the ceiling of the tent. He took a minute to reply to his husband, looking fragile. “I know that. I know magic isn’t bad for children. I know magic is what has kept the Free Folk alive and thriving for so long. I know.”

 

“It’s hard to get over the loss of a child that felt like yours.”

 

Jon nodded, not looking at Tormund. “I know things are different here. Ailies and Marita are strong women. Any children they bear will be strong, and they wouldn’t let anything happen to them.”

 

Tormund nodded. “You chose them both because they cared more about the children’s safety than anything.”

 

“Yes. But thinking of it this way sounds insulting to Daenerys.”

 

“You don’t mean it as an insult to her. Daenerys didn’t know what she had bargained for when she asked the witch to save Drogo.”

 

Jon nodded. “Yeah. I’ll try to be less nervous around them, not avoid them. It’s fine, Tormund.”

 

Tormund’s next question was gentle, and Jon knew he was trying to _not_ sound accusing, but it sort of did. “Then why haven’t you told your brother and sister you’ll have a child yet?”

 

Jon didn’t have a proper answer for that.

 

***

 

Shadow and Ghost seem to have moved into Jon and Tormund’s tent with them, Shadow curled up at Jon’s back while Ghost lay behind her. It was a week later when he was trying to coax Shadow out of the tent to go up to the castle for breakfast that morning, that he realized just how close she was to giving birth.

 

He sighed, and forwent going to the castle that morning -he had tried, if only to tell Sansa and Bran he’d be down at the Free Folk camp for the next few days,- but Shadow was insisting on being exactly what her name implied, and refused to leave Jon’s side, but she also refused to leave the camp. When he tried to go on without her, she let out a rumbling growl that had made a woman near them jump at the noise, and Jon sighed, staying.

 

He sent a young teen up to the castle instead, to tell them where he was.

 

Sansa could join them in the camp if she wanted to, though Bran couldn’t leave the castle without someone to carry him, since they still didn’t have a new saddle ready for him that could carry him. He could mostly get around with the help of Meera, pushing a chair with wheels they had made for him to get around there, but the grounds were too rough and covered in snow for them to leave.

 

He sat down around a fire with Tormund, sitting with Betha and her mother, uncle and aunt. Daia had probably gone up to the castle with Lyanna again this morning. He couldn’t tell which one of them was an influence on the other, but they seemed to come up with the most interesting hyjinks together.

 

Shadow took a minute to walk around the campfire, sniffing all the occupants of the area between their tents, before deciding they were trustworthy, and coming back to sit so close to Jon that they were pressed together, her stomach to his right thigh.

 

Jon reached down to rub her head a moment before he caught sight of another direwolf wandering a ways away from them before disappearing behind a group of Thenns. When they passed, it was gone again.

 

He shook his head, looking back down at the black wolf as Ghost finally came back from whatever he’d been up to that morning, and Jon had a moment to hope that Ghost didn’t come back with _another_ pregnant direwolf, because the fighting would be spectacular, and bloody, between the jilted females.

 

Ghost gave him a funny look before sitting next to Shadow and licking her head once when she leaned back to watch him. Jon rolled his eyes, deciding not to look into the situation too hard.

 

***

 

Jon is _sure_ at this point that the universe is conspiring against him right now. Either that, or just Tormund.

 

Who the hell’s idea was it to leave him alone with a pregnant direwolf anyways? Not anyone with a brain, that’s for sure. Because now, he was having a slight panic attack as he tried to figure out what to do when Shadow suddenly started _having puppies_ on his bed. He’s not sure if he should go out and ask someone for help, because it might look a little strange for the King of the North to go screaming down the encampment because a dog is having puppies. He might get some strange looks for that. In fact, stranger looks than normal.

 

Which is why, when Tormund came back, well over an hour later, it was to the sight of Jon sitting in the middle of the tent, with five direwolf pups, cleaned off from any strange mess, muttering sourly that they were going to have to get new furs and sleep in the castle tonight.

 

“Fine. I’ll tell Sansa and Bran that I’m going to be a father. Circumstances have come up that made me think it’s best they know.”

 

Why is it that it’s always when he leaves that the interesting stuff happens? Well, at least Jon didn’t seem too traumatized by the incident.

 

***

 

A woman from the castle came down to talk to Jon when she heard he had a group of direwolf pups living with him that have taken over their tent as their den. She was working as the master of kennels in Winterfell now, though Jon is sure she’s from the Free Folk camp.

 

“They won’t be able to see or hear for a few weeks. Crawling will pretty much be the extent of their movement.”

 

She gently manipulated all five of the pups to check them over to see if they were healthy under the watchful eye of their mother. She handed one of the snuffling pups over to Jon and put the rest of them back at their mom’s side. “They’re all strong, but that one’s the runt of the litter. You’ll need to keep a close eye on him.”

 

Jon frowned. “Why? Ghost was an outcast in his litter for being white, and Shadow was most likely in hers, since being pure black is rare, she should be fine.”

 

She nodded. “Yes, she’ll be fine. In my experience, the runts tend to grow biggest anyways, but she might be bullied by other pups or her own siblings, if they think they need to compete for anything. Luckily, in a camp this big, their mom can get away with not hunting until she’s ready to leave, just make sure she’s well fed and the other pups won’t feel the need to compete.”

 

Jon nodded, putting the smallest girl back down with her siblings and stood up to follow the woman out. “I know how to take care of wolves, but how do I convince Shadow to let me leave? She growls whenever I get too far away, and yesterday she outright _followed_ me up to the castle and dragged me back by my shirt when I tried to go anyways.”

 

The woman snorted once, looking amused, before catching the incredulous look on Jon’s face and breaking out into a loud guffaw, taking a minute to compose herself again. “I’d say either she _really_ likes you, or she doesn’t feel safe without someone who can help her watch after the pups while their dad is hunting. Find someone else to come stay with her while you need to be away.”

 

Jon scowled after her as she left, amused, but rolled his eyes instead of saying anything. There was one thing that held true about the Free Folk, no matter his position as King of the North, is that _none_ of them found him the least bit frightening. He looked over towards the campfire they kept going between Tormund and Jon’s tent, and the tents of his daughters and their mother’s family. Betha was sitting with a book she’d taken back with her from the library, and glanced up at him.

 

Jon smiled at her. “Hello, sweetheart, do you think you could help me with something? I think you’re actually just the person for this.”

 

She smiled back, scrambling up from the log with the book still in hand, following him back into his and Tormund’s tent. “Of course.”

 

Getting the wolf to uncling from Jon and onto Betha was both easier, and more surprising than the two of them thought it would be. In fact, the way Shadow would look at Betha now, seemed almost longing, in a way Jon couldn’t place.

 

“She’s happy to have someone who knows what she needs without trying too hard to get them to see it, now.”

 

Jon rather thought that the way Betha was curled up around Shadow’s head, seemed loving. More loving even when she let herself touch family members. When she wasn’t _afraid_ of invading someone’s space so much that she actually _let_ herself have that contact. This was entirely unrestrained, and frankly, a rare connection that Jon thought was beautiful.

 

He wonders how the girl hasn’t attracted a small horde of animals to her side by now. Already, she looked happier than she’s been the entire time Jon’s known her. It was heartbreaking, and he’d do anything to keep her happy now.

 

***

 

It was nearly a week later when Jon found another direwolf in the castle walls. Direwolves and other strange animals were a regular occurrence, but not too many of them wandered through the castle, more focused on the Free Folk camp than the people inside the castle, but this one seemed to be on a mission, stalking past the castle gates -open, as they always were now- and towards the inner keep, while Jon had been directing a group of men moving crates of knapped dragon glass towards the armory.

 

He let the wolf past without a second thought, more focused on making sure none of the men dropped the heavy crates and broke the obsidian, till he heard a voice calling out after the wolf.

 

“Nymeria! I said stay here!”

 

Jon was glad he hadn’t been holding one of the crates, because he would have dropped it when the owner of the voice came around the corner, and it seemed she was just as shocked as Jon had been, stopping in place while another teen -tall, male, tan skin- stopped next to her, looking confused while he held his arm.

 

His arm that seemed to be bleeding quite badly through off white bandages. Jon’s eyebrows went up. “Who’s the bleeder?”

 

Arya -for surely, it was Arya, and Jon must still be in shock right now, for all he could do was stare at her in wonder at how much older she was- looked over at the taller teen, and let out a little sigh. “Gendry, when did that start bleeding again?”

 

Gendry held the cut with a wince, pulling his hand away for a second to show blood stained fingers. “A minute ago when Nymeria ran off. I think I moved it wrong.”

 

Jon called over a server from the glass gardens to help the men with crates to the armory and motioned for Arya and Gendry to follow him into the inner keep.

 

“How the hell did he get a cut like that anyways?” He winced at his own tone while he started leading them towards the great hall, knowing the Maester was most likely there with Sansa now. He didn’t know what else to say. What _could_ he say? ‘I didn’t even know if you were still alive’? ‘How did you get out of King’s Landing when Sansa had been captive’? Actually, he wasn’t sure what _to_ say, what _not_ to say, it was all jumbled up in his head and if he didn’t focus on one thing right now, it would all come out in an uncoordinated mess.

 

“King’s Landing is dangerous right now, people are fleeing North from the Mad Queen. I found Gendry in the Stormlands on my way here, things are getting rough, and we had a bit of a run in with the wrong sort this morning. Gendry’s not a very good fighter. We hear a dragon queen’s taken up in King’s Landing, but they’re not sure if she’ll be any better yet.”

 

It took Jon a half a minute to remember what his original question was, and he gave them both a hum in reply, not sure what to say, as they entered the great hall.

 

Bran was there with a Maester at his side while he sat at the main table, holding court with Meera at his other side. Meera was raised in a noble house as well, and though the Neck was a different place entirely, she knew how to hold court as her father had done. Either that, or she was willing to not let Bran fail at this alone at least.

 

“Bran.”

 

Everyone in the room turned sharply to look at the newcomers to the room, and Bran would have stood up if he could, looking at Arya with wide eyes as she came towards the table.

 

Jon motioned for Gendry to follow her. “The man next to Bran is the Maester, he’ll fix your arm for you.”

 

He turned to the men and women who had gathered to talk to Bran for their needs, and went over to the first one in line. “You came to court today, I’ll help you over here, please.”

 

As much as he wanted to go over and embrace Arya along with their brother, he couldn’t ignore anyone who had come to Winterfell for their help and protection, so he lead the curious men over to the other side of the room.

 

The first man looked nervously over at the table. It was one thing to come to the Lord of Winterfell to ask for help, but it was different to come to the king, so Jon tried to look kind. It seemed to have worked, when the man stood up straighter, more confidence. “My wife, your grace, she’s… ill…”

 

Jon nodded. “Do you know what ails her?”

 

He shook his head. “No, only that it’s hard for her to move. She said all her joints feel like wounds, and her muscles are tired. She’s been dealing with that for years, but lately, it’s hard for her to get out of bed in the morning, and she sleeps the day away. I fear I’m losing her.”

 

Jon nodded, a sad look on his face, turning to one of the guards in the room to motion him forward. There weren’t many guards in Winterfell, but they kept them close in case Bran needed something during court. “Take this man down to the Free Folk camp. There is a healer there named Siane, ask for her. If she cannot go to his home to help him, she’ll find someone who will.”

 

The man was grateful to him for his help, and Jon let himself smile for a moment as he was lead out of the room, before turning to the next man in line for his help.

 

***

 

When Jon was finished, he came back to the other side of the room, where they seem to have gathered more people now. Sansa was standing with her arms around Arya who seemed to tolerate the hug in the stoic manner of one who craved the touch. Jon could see a relief in her eyes before they closed and she leaned into Sansa’s shoulder.

 

Jon sat next to Gendry at the table while they watched Gendry get his arm sewn up now that the Maester had finished cleaning the wound. Gendry seemed a little dizzy as he sat, and Jon wondered if he’d been given anything for his pain. “Arya, um, who is this?”

 

Arya pulled back from Sansa enough to look over at Jon behind her, but never moved to pull her sister’s arms off her. “Gendry. Robert Baratheon’s bastard son. I met him in King’s Landing when Yoren helped me get out of the Capitol, heading towards the Wall.”

 

Jon was quiet for a minute, thinking that over. “Yoren never made it back to the Wall. I… I’d only known him for a month or so, I never put it together, but when I came back with the Free Folk, he wasn’t there.”

 

Arya frowned at him, but it was Gendry who asked, words slurring a little. “Back? Back to Winterfell, or back to the Wall?”

 

“The Wall. I’d been North of the Wall for four years when I came back.”

 

Jon looked over at the door when someone else came in. It was Dalla and the little prince on her hip, chattering away at her in that special baby speak that no one else could understand, and for a moment, Jon’s eyes just attached to him, wondering if his own children would be that bubbly and excitable. Gendry seemed to follow his line of vision and smiled. Jon thought he’d probably be the friendliest drunk in the room.

 

“Oh, a baby, is he yours?”

 

Dalla set the baby in question down on the floor next to Ghost and Nymeria, who had been having a reunion of their own, and they both turned on the baby, happy to guard and play with him. Jon shook his head as Dalla came over to inspect his cut as the Maester finished stitching him up. She was a healer, she’d make sure it wasn’t infected.

 

“No, he’s not mine. Mine aren’t born yet. Won’t be for at least half a year now.”

 

Apparently, because of the shock in _all_ of his sibling’s voices, there were some things he has neglected to mention before now. He turned back to look at them all with wide innocent eyes. “Uh… so, I’m having kids.”

 

Sansa looked wide eyed, and he almost felt like running away. That was a dangerous look in her eyes. “How many?”

 

Jon shrugged. “Me and Tormund picked two surrogates.”

 

Dalla made an amused noise. “Two babies at the same time is going to be fun.”

 

Jon nodded with a sigh. He’s heard that more than a few times, but anxiety makes for some spur of the moment decisions, and this topic has been giving him anxiety for years.

 

Arya made a funny noise, moving to hit Gendry on the head when it looked like he might fall asleep where he was sitting. “Wake up, idiot. Don’t sleep here, you don’t even have a shirt on, you’ll freeze.”

 

“Now, that’s a sentence that’s familiar, that better not be _my_ idiot anyone’s talking to.”

 

Tormund came into the room from the hallway, obviously drawn there by the crowd that seemed to have gathered, and stopped at Jon’s side, looking down at said idiot as Gendry tried to worm his way into a shirt with one arm bandaged, and clearly having been given some impressive medicine.

 

“I don’t get it, why do you need a surrogate? Can your wife not carry?”

 

Arya’s question seemed innocent enough, though it sent Tormund into gales of laughter till he was bent over, holding his stomach. “Oh that’s amazing, who’s the little one and why is she even here if she’s this clueless?”

 

Jon looked between Arya -who looked like she was deciding if she wanted to stab Tormund or not- and Tormund, before letting out a sigh. “Tormund, this is my _sister_ , Arya. She’s been thought to be dead up till now. Apparently, she’s been in the South. Arya, this is Tormund. My husband.”

 

Arya made a funny noise in the back of her throat, and whatever she was about to say was cut off when Gendry, who’s not been very well watched up to now, fell off his chair with a quietly muttered ‘ow,’ still halfway in a shirt, and halfway asleep. Arya moved to help him with another sigh, and Tormund went back to laughing.

 

Jon has amazing family. Amazing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gendry would be an adorable 'I just wanna sleep but cuddling is good too' drunk, and I love him.


	5. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lord Royce in this is much more accepting of the Free Folk (mostly cause they have a 100k people...) and is much more of a nice guy than he was in the show. He's not HORRIBLE in the show, but he's a bit less stiffly here.
> 
> Robin might possibly have a huge crush on Jon, that's sort of up to reader interp tho.

When the Knights of the Vale arrived, Sansa was stiff standing between Jon and Ygritte, and Jon wanted to ask her if she was okay. Ygritte moved to put a hand around her waist, and Tormund put a stilling hand on Jon’s elbow, keeping him from moving. Sansa was tense beyond measure, and Tormund shook his head at Jon. Jon wouldn’t help matters much by moving to touch her as well, she’d clammed in on herself ever since she’d gotten the raven of their impending arrival, and no one but Ygritte and occasionally Arya, had the slightest chance of getting close enough to touch her without her going to a bad place.

 

Jon didn’t ask. He’d never endured what she had, but he knew what it was like to fear touch. If Petyr stepped a single toe out of line, Jon would deliver Sansa his head.

 

He turned a little so he could see Bran, sitting in his chair on the other side of Tormund with a set of furs in his lap, and both Meera and Howland behind him. If Meera was protective of Bran, then so was Howland. Jon vaguely wondered if that had anything to do with the loss of his son, but he put it aside for now. Howland Reed was a loving father, and the loss of Jojen had hit him hard, like a physical blow. After he’d arrived at Winterfell, he had tried to tell Jon of how him and Ned had found Jon as a baby, and Jon had stopped him when he realized the words were too painful for Howland to grit out through his sorrow of loss.

 

Anything that would help the man heal, was a good thing, and he was loving towards Bran in a way that suggested he might be thinking of arranging a marriage between Bran and Meera. It wouldn’t be a bad idea, as long as the two wound agree to it.

 

Arya was sitting on a crate off to the side of the open gates of Winterfell where they would meet their guests, and behind them, were the other lords of the North, looking as surly and uncaring of meeting a southern lord as ever. Jon had the feeling that none of them would like Petyr.

 

Gendry seemed to be healing well, and just last week, he’d asked Sansa and Bran if he could take over the blacksmith’s home as his own. Arya had agreed that it would be good for him, and his work wouldn’t disappoint. She was almost lovingly cleaning a dagger that he had made for practice a few nights before. Almost lovingly, in the sense, that Jon knew fully well it was meant as a threat, with her sitting in plain sight of the gates as she did it. She wanted Petyr to know she didn’t want him here.

 

None of them did.

 

Sansa had eventually conceded that having the army of the Vale behind them could only help, and they already liked her more than they liked Petyr. They only needed to get Robin away from his claws for long enough to like them.

 

“Where’s Mance?”

 

Jon looked around for a minute without finding the Free Folk leader, and frowned. Tormund shrugged. “He didn’t want to meet some southern lord, I expect. He’ll probably show up for the feast, if only to look imposing and angry. He says he has better things to do.”

 

One of the lords behind them looked amused, and another approving, and Jon decided that they also, really did not want to see Petyr Baelish. It was more of a punishment than anything.

 

He sighed, turning back to the gate as the head of the party came through, Petyr at the front with Robin coming up behind them. There were a few others, and Jon only recognized one of them, who looked at Sansa for a long moment, and she nearly smiled back at him, so Jon assumed he was fine as well.

 

Petyr dismounted with a flourish that was lost on no one in the courtyard, and Jon could see Arya outright rolling her eyes out of the corner of his eyes. He thought for a moment that he might have to hold her back from something when she finally got up, but was thankful to see Gendry finally appearing just in time to put a stilling hand on her shoulder. 

 

“Lord Snow-”

 

“King.”

 

Petyr stopped, looking over at Sansa, who was glaring him down, and seemed almost embarrassed. “Forgive me, it was not that long ago that you were a Snow, King Stark-”

 

“I’m still a Snow, Baelish.” Jon didn’t give him a chance to reply, deciding to cut him off before he said anything at all. Jon had the feeling that if Petyr spoke, he’d punch him. He moved in a clear dismissal of the man over to where Robin was attempting to dismount his horse -with some very bad results- and tried to give the boy a gentle smile, reaching up to help him from where his robes were stuck in his saddle. Obviously, teaching him to ride was slow going. “Hello, Sweetrobin, I’ve heard much of you. We’ve been excited for your arrival.”

 

Robin gave Jon a look like he might think the man was an angel, and eagerly ignored Petyr’s aborted attempts to help him down in favor of letting Jon help him instead. “You have?”

 

Jon nodded, glancing back at the others when he heard snickering, and conveniently found none of them laughing. “Of course. The Lord of the Vale is a powerful position, and we wanted to see who would grace our halls for it. Are you cold? It’s quite cold outside, we must get you all into the warm keep. It would be an honor for you all to join us.”

 

The comment was clearly directed away from Petyr, which the other lords of the Vale seemed amused at, and Petyr seemed put out for a moment before moving to greet Sansa. Before he could get anywhere near her, his path was blocked by both Tormund and Ygritte, giving Jon enough time to whisk Robin away up to the castle with Sansa next to him, and the rest of the others following. Petyr didn’t even get a chance to say her name.

 

Robin was too swept up in amazement for the king in the North to even realize Petyr was upset.

 

***

 

“Is this wise?”

 

Jon was sitting next to the blacksmith entrance where Gendry was working, while they both watched Arya attempt to teach Robin how to actually use a sword without hurting himself. They had had to give him a blunted wooden one instead of metal, he was quite bad at it.

 

After arriving so early in the morning that day and having breakfast in the great hall with their new guests, Robin was a ball of energy after spending days on end on a horseback, and Lord Royce had suggested training. Robin seemed to think of it as a game at least, happily following the idea when Arya had suggested he try a new trainer now. Not that there had been anything wrong with Lord Royce, but a student could always learn from many teachers. It’s how she got so good herself.

 

Jon couldn’t help the warm feeling in his chest when he thought of how he’d been of the first of them, before Arya had left for King’s Landing. Watching her now, and remembering how she had caught onto it just as fast as Daenerys had, though they didn’t get to train nearly as often, he couldn’t help but think that she would easily be as good as them one day. She might already be.

 

She might be as good as Jon’s mother, the Knight of the Laughing Tree. Bran had shared that memory with Jon when he found out how, and Jon now knows why it had been so hard for Ned to talk about her. She was beautiful, and she was dangerous, and she looked exactly like Jon does. It makes sense now, why Ned had hurt so much to see her in him.

 

Gendry smirked, and Jon wondered if Arya knew how much he loved her, and if she loved him just as much. “A man once said Arya had more courage than sense, and I’ve never heard something so fitting. As long as she knows he won’t take a beating well, she’ll be fine.”

 

Lord Royce was off to the side of the two of them, clearly amused. He had a much nicer look on his face now that he was no longer around Baelish. They all looked like that, really.

 

Gendry held up the rough shape of the blade he was forging, and gave Jon a funny look. “I don’t see why you need a new sword, yours look fine.”

 

Jon looked down at Long Claw on his hip, and patted the hilt. He didn’t normally feel the need to walk around with it on him at all times, but he felt highly threatened with Petyr in the castle. It was instinct to keep a weapon close when danger is near. “It’s not for me. It’s for Daenerys.”

 

Gendry frowned. “Yes. The dragon queen.”

 

Jon actually looked a little surprised at him, raising an eyebrow. “You actually believe she exists? That’s a change from my usual.”

 

Gendry shook his head, staring for a long time at the hilt of the sword, before turning it and moving to put it back in the flames when he saw it start to cool. “I don’t see why I wouldn’t. Her taking over King’s Landing is the reason why I fled. Not because I thought she would be a bad queen, but because I didn’t want to take any chances. Besides, Arya was across the Narrow Sea for a while, and she says they all love her there.”

 

Jon looked down at his hands for a few minutes, when he finally spoke, it was quiet. “It’s not often someone believes me. Thanks, I guess.”

 

Gendry stared at Jon unblinkingly for a minute back, before nodding, an almost pitying look on his face. “It must be hard; everyone around you thinking you’re crazy.”

 

Jon nodded, not meeting his eyes. “It is. I’m glad Arya believes me now… but it’s still hard.”

 

Gendry hummed, going back to his work with a more somber mood. Jon felt terrible for making his smile go away. He always seemed to do that to those close to him.

 

He didn’t like it.

 

He watched Arya for a few more minutes. “She’s quite good. Do you know who trained her?”

 

Gendry looked up again and gave a shrug after a long moment. “All I know is she did it in Braavos. That girl got around further than any of us before coming back home.”

 

Jon looked wide eyed. “Yes, she did. Well, good thing you had her on the way back, I’m not sure you would have made it this far North without her.”

 

Gendry squawked, clearly offended. “I know how to fight, I can fight!”

 

Jon reached over without looking and gave him a sound smack on the arm where he’d been bleeding when he got there, making him yelp and drop the hammer he’d been holding. “Yes, a very good fighter.”

 

Gendry’s somber mood turned into pouting now. Though, that was a ways better.

 

***

 

That night they had a great feast to celebrate the Lord of the Vale coming to bend the knee to the King in the North.

 

Jon asked for Robin to sit at the high table with him and the others of the house, an amused look towards Royce when Petyr had scowled at the slight against him. But what could he say to the king? Not much, from where he was sitting. Robin was ecstatic of course. He’d been following Jon around all day now, eager to be noticed. It seemed, their plans to get Robin away from Petyr were easier than expected. Tormund and Sansa were already giving him light hearted jabs about how he’s apparently wooed the Lord of the Vale in under a day.

 

Tormund was sitting on the other side of Robin. Not for him, of course, but because that put Sansa between him and Ygritte. Jon was happy to see how protective they were over her. She was a hard woman, and she barely needed the protection now days, but she was distant right now, eyes glazed over while Petyr was in the room. At some points, the two of them had had to pull her out of the room when a fine tremor started going through her hands if he was around too long.

 

Jon had the feeling she would retire with Ygritte early tonight. Jon had no doubt that if Petyr was dumb enough to get close while Ygritte was around, he’d lose some interesting body parts.

 

Jon looked up when a chair was moved onto his other side at the end of the table -which, to be frank, is probably not where he’s supposed to sit, but it was where he was tonight- and Howland Reed sat down next to Jon with a rough look. He gave Robin a small smile before addressing Jon, knowing that Robin had a reputation for not liking to be ignored, even if it was only a small greeting.

 

“Hello, Sweetrobin.” The old nickname of his mother had seemed to work well with Jon and the others when used on him, though the one time Petyr had tried it on him, he’d scowled and claimed his stepfather was babying him. He smiled at Howland now, pleased with the greeting, and went back to playing with his carrots. He didn’t like carrots, but Jon was going to forgo asking him to eat them tonight, in favor of not wanting to excite him when he was obviously still keyed up from a long journey there.

 

Howland turned to Jon, and spoke in a low voice, just as Tormund was turning around in his seat to speak to Robin now. Obviously, this wasn’t something they wanted him to hear.

 

“We need to get rid of Petyr. Bran has seen it in the weirwood, he kills his enemies and finds a way to blame it on others, and you are making him your enemy right now. Petyr likes to watch people suffer, and he will gladly burn all of us alive if he thinks he can get away with it.”

 

Jon was surprised at the steady tone. Howland wasn’t often gone from Meera and Bran’s sides now days. He said it hurt his heart too much to think of them missing. He rarely spoke with others. Jon nodded slowly. “Sansa says she knows he killed Joffrey Lannister, and Lysa Arryn. She says she also suspects him of a lot more than that.”

 

Howland nodded. “Do you have a plan to get rid of him?”

 

Jon nodded. “Yes. It will have to wait until tomorrow when they bend the knee. It will make for less of an issue. It’ll also give Robin longer to get used to us before we shatter his whole world.”

 

Howland seemed to think that over. “You have a way to take care of the threat?”

 

Jon gave him a look like he thought he might be a little slow. “Technically, my sister is the Lady of Winterfell, which normally, would make her Wardeness of the North, of course, that’s null now that they’ve gone and made me king, but still, her and Bran are the Lord and Lady of this holdfast, and one of them not only knows, but has witnessed him kill, and the other has seen it through visions. We are in a time of war, and in times of war, you remove the threat before it can strike. As soon as he bends the knee, and he will, he’s a traitor to the North.”

 

Howland nodded, satisfied with that answer. “Good. If he doesn’t stop looking at your sister like that I’ll probably try to make him eat his dinnerware.”

 

Jon smiled ever so slightly, shaking his head. “I’m fairly sure my sister will be retiring for the night soon anyways.”

 

“Good. I don’t like him.”

 

“No one does.”

 

***

 

Capturing Petyr Baelish was the easy part. Keeping the allegiance of Robin Arryn afterwards, was another thing.

 

Jon had meant for this to be a quick thing. The one who carries the sentence should be the one to swing the sword -Jon’s father had taught him that, and after a few mistakes on Daenerys’s part, that even she was willing to admit, were bad, they both knew it to be true- and Jon had wanted this over and done with.

 

He hadn’t counted on the fact that a crying fifteen year old could sway him into moving another way, instead of taking Petyr’s head right away. He was still planning on it, and Petyr was sitting in a cell right now, but Jon moved to follow Robin Arryn to the rooms he was staying in right now. His guards couldn’t really do anything to stop him, since the King sort of had the highest authority here.

 

Jon sat down next to Robin, who was crying, and wondered if he had ever looked like that before. Robin was a childish teen, who cared more for games and excitement than anything, because of his mother’s babying. Jon remembers what it was like to still have a septa at twelve, to be told he wasn’t to be trusted on his own, and he couldn’t make decisions for himself. He thinks, that choosing to go to the Night’s Watch, might have been his first real decision.

 

He put a hand on Robin’s back, and instead of getting angry at him and pulling away, Robin turned to him and put both arms around Jon’s neck. “I know Uncle Petyr isn’t good, I know that, he killed my mother, but what am I supposed to do without him? I don’t know how to be Lord of the Vale.”

 

Jon sighed, pulling Robin in closer so he could hold him, and now, he thinks he sees more of himself in this boy, than he properly should. “Do you trust me?”

 

Robin nodded. “Lord Royce says you became king because you’re going to save us all from the White Walkers.”

 

Jon nodded. “That’s right. I want to do whatever I can to save us from the White Walkers. I don’t believe that Petyr would want to save us from them. I think he would rather rule a land made of our corpses, than help us all survive, if he wasn’t getting anything out of it.”

 

Robin pulled back a little, his eyes bloodshot, and sniffling. “That’s not good.”

 

“No, it isn’t. Sweetrobin, do you trust Lord Royce?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then, if worst comes to worst, he’ll always be there to help you. But we have until you go home again to decide who will rule the Vale while you’re still learning how, and me and Sansa will make sure they’re good, and good to you.”

 

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get Robin to be okay for now.

 

***

 

Sam had originally brought with him, four crates, which he kept close, and kept on the wagons as they rode.

 

Jorah had no idea what they crates might have in them, only that Sam threw an absolute fit when it started raining one day, and they’d been forced to keep them all under tarps like the ones they would keep firewood under, to keep them dry.

 

It wasn’t clothes, for Gilly and Sam traveled light, other than what they kept in another, smaller, open crate that kept clothing and even a few children’s toys.

 

It wasn’t until Jorah accompanied two Unsullied men down to the library vaults of the castle, to help them bring out a fifth crate that Sam was making up now, that he realized what it was.

 

“I thought it was bad to steal books from the Citadel?”

 

Sam looked up at Jorah with a bland look. “Yes, well, as much as I’ve always wanted to be a maester, I’ve found that none of them give a ruddy shit about what’s going on at the Wall. We need these books.”

 

Jorah looked through what he was taking from the Inner Keep’s library, but couldn’t make much sense of them. “How do you know you have everything you need now?”

 

Sam shrugged. “Well, I think Jon’s brother’s been sending me visions of books. I got all the ones he wanted out of the Citadel, and now the ones from King’s Landing. It’s why I need to go North now. A man riding with nothing but a woman, a baby and crates of books, would easily have them taken from them. I might have been sent to the Wall, but I’m not a good fighter. I know that.”

 

Jorah sat down next to the pile of books as Sam started packing them away into a crate. “You’re still alive now, and that’s what counts.”

 

Sam stood up with an upset, almost haunted look. “Jon was the best fighter I ever knew. They killed him.”

 

“But he’s alive again.”

 

“That’s what matters.”

 

“Yes.”

 

***

 

Jon came up to the castle with Tormund the next morning. He wasn’t sure what to expect, if Sansa would be okay for a while, or if all his siblings have retreated to their own coping methods for now.

 

It seems, from the nearly empty hall, it would be the second one. At least for now. Robin hadn’t attended the execution. He’d asked if he should, but Jon had politely directed him towards a septa who would watch over him for a few weeks to make sure he’s not thinking of doing anything drastic in his newly changed world.

 

Jon sat with Ailies and Marita while Tormund went to go sate his curiosity of where his in-laws have gotten to this morning, and if any of them would need his help.

 

He turned to Ailies with curiosity when the servers left, leaving them with a breakfast spread that put most meals to shame. It seems, with their power to grow food, as well as dining with two pregnant women who are just starting to show, meals with the Free Folk were hearty.

 

“You’ve said you’ve something to tell me?”

 

She was a tall woman. Nearly as tall as Tormund was -a shocking development- and skin as dark as coal. Jon had the feeling that her kind were rare in the North. She bore the same magic as any other Free Folk, though only enough for them to know she had it.

 

Which, granted, was still more than Tormund had. It seems, he’s actually one of the oddities of their people. Since Mance had brought all of their people together for the first time since the last King Beyond the Wall had been in charge, interbreeding was only just starting to be a thing again.

 

There were many clans where magic had been all but bred out of them, and the further you get away from the blonde hair and pale skin of Valerian blood, the less you see the magic.

 

She had a posture to her sitting that not even Sansa could achieve, though like Ailies, Sansa was tall and willowy enough to achieve a stature not many others could. Jon found himself looking up at both of them when he spoke, and it wasn’t hard to feel ungainly around them.

 

“I have spoken with a healer. In fact, both of us have.” Here, she joined hands with Marita, and Jon smiled at the reminder that the two of them weren’t just his surrogates, they were a happily married couple. He thinks that’s why he chose them.

 

Eventually, Jon and Tormund were going to have to move into the castle. Having seven direwolves in one tent was already too much, and five of them were only pups. Add children and two adults and occasionally Betha and Daia to that, and it’s too many people to be comfortable, much less realistic. He was planning on asking them to move to the castle with them, if only so they could all be closer to family. The Free Folk were only outside the castle walls, but Jon would loath to miss their first steps and words because he slept too far away.

 

“I guess all is well, then?”

 

Ailies put her free hand on her stomach, which was only just now starting to show a bump there, even through the thick furs she wore. Marita wasn’t even showing yet, she was still so small. She was nothing like the tall dark willowy figure that Ailies was, she was small and pale, with white hair and magic to spare. “It’s two. Two babies.”

 

“Twins?”

 

She nodded, a blessed grin on her face. “Yes, twins. The gods have smiled upon our children, and they will be loved.”

 

Jon couldn’t help the grin on his face. “Yes. They do bless us so.”

 

When Jon was finishing up his meal, Robin Arryn finally came to the hall with Tormund behind him, looking sullen and a little tired. Jon assumed he didn’t get much sleep the night before.

 

Robin came to sit next to Jon at the table, with a mumbled sentence to Tormund that he already ate that morning when the halfgiant tried to give him a plate of food. Jon stared at him a long moment before Robin belatedly started to pick at it, eating a blood sausage and some tomatoes.

 

“Lord Royce says you have a litter of puppies.”

 

Jon looked between Robin and Royce, who was just coming into the room, before seeing Robin between Jon and Tormund and sighing in relief and heading back out the way he came now. “Yes. Direwolves. My wolf, Ghost, had a litter recently.”

 

Robin showed interest for the first time since the night before, eating a little while he thought that over. “How many?”

 

“Five.”

 

“Can I see them?”

 

Jon thought about that, humming a little. “Eat first, and we’ll have to go tell Lord Royce where you’ll be.”

 

“They’re not in the castle?”

 

“No, they’re down in the Free Folk camp, where me and Tormund sleep at night.”

 

“That’s cool, that means you can play with them whenever you want.”

 

Jon wondered if the childishness was a result of not being allowed the freedom of independant thought all his life, or if he was honestly just too sweet to grow up, but he couldn’t help but be jealous and pitious in both parts.

 

He wished he was innocent like that, but if it were true, he would lose everything he knows now, and that, would be a shame.

 

Sometimes he sees too much of himself in Robin for the short time he’s known him though. He wonders if this is how people used to see him what he was younger, back before he went to the Wall; innocent, helpless, too good to survive in this world.

 

Down in the Free Folk camp, Robin was happily drowning in puppies on fur covered ground of the tent next to an unnaturally bright and hot fire they rightly shouldn’t have inside anyways. Robin was smiling so bright Jon thought his face would split.

 

Finally, the teen sighed, and turned so he could nuzzle one of the pups happily. “Why did you marry a wildling man?”

 

Jon watched the boy closely for a minute, before deciding he didn’t see any judgement there, just curiosity. “I love him. I love him very much. He’s my best friend too, I think.”

 

Robin just sighed again. “I’ve never had a best friend before. Mother wanted me to marry Sansa before.”

 

“Did you want to marry her?”

 

He shrugged. “I don’t have a best friend to marry. Not many boys want to marry other boys, I think, so Royce is probably going to make me marry a girl one day.”

 

Jon rather thought Robin looked a little bitter about that, and decided to talk to Royce about that later when he could. If the King in the North could marry a man, that has to count for something, right?

 

“Why do I need a septa while I’m here?”

 

“We want to make sure you’re doing okay, and that you have someone with you if you get lost.”

 

“I’m fifteen, I don’t need a septa.”

 

Jon shrugged. “I had a septa until I was fifteen.”

 

Robin looked shocked, sitting up. “Why?”

 

Jon didn’t have a proper answer to that, other than those around him thinking he was mentally unstable. “My father and his wife worried about me. My mind wanders sometimes and they didn’t want me to get hurt.”

 

Robin slowly nodded, thinking that over. “Oh.”

 

It seems, he didn’t have a good answer for that either.

 

He left Robin in the Free Folk camp that morning with Daia and Betha and their mother. If the three of them didn’t get along, Fedra knew how to handle squabbling children. She was a good mother, and she was quickly becoming kin to Jon.

 

Robin had seemed excited about being left alone, even if it was in the middle of a camp, and Jon rather thought the teenager could probably do with a little more independence in his life.

 

Back at the castle, Jon found Lord Royce with Sansa, the two of them smiling, almost bitterly at a memory. He didn’t want to interupt, but he actually have things he needed to be doing other than this, so he stepped onto the walkway they were at and leaned against one of the rails. They turned to greet him and Royce bowed to him in a way that made Jon immediately blanche.

 

“My king.”

 

His eyes fluttered closed for a second, and he muttered something unrepeatable under his breath before opening them back up. As a general rule, the Northern men were a surly lot, hard and stubborn, and though they had declared Jon their king, they didn’t bow at him every time he passed, and they didn’t simper at his anger. They rose hell and gave nothing back but a hard facade to weather the cold in.

 

The cold breeds folk as hard as ice itself.

 

“Please, there’s no need for any ceremony here. We’re not some flowery Southerners, we don’t care much for it.”

 

He nodded, looking amused. “You’ve come to speak with me then? Is Robin faring well?”

 

Jon nodded, a little smile on his face. “Yes, I think he’s doing well right now. Though he has brought two concerns to my attention. He wants a dog.”

 

Royce let out a laugh at that, nodding. “Yes, the lad has had his eyes set on pretty much any animal he thinks he can get away with. The amount of times I’ve tried to explain to him that hunting hounds aren’t for playing, is astounding.”

 

Jon smiled a little. “As I’m sure. It would please him greatly if he had one, though.”

 

“He’ll get one. For his birthday this year, I think. Lady Waynwood is seeing to it as we speak.”

 

Jon nodded, looking pleased. “Good. He deserves something to give him unconditional love. He said he’s never had a friend before. That’s also concerning, but mainly it just says he needs to be around more kids his own age.”

 

“Of course, of course. What else did the boy bring up?”

 

Jon waited a long moment before answering this one. He knew some people were quite tense at this subject. “He doesn’t want to marry a woman.”

 

Royce thought about that one for a minute, before nodding. “That does seem about right, I’d say. The boy always looked more towards… well, not other boys. Let’s just say, that it’s a good think Petyr Baelish didn’t like young men, or he could have easily taken advantage.”

 

“He likes older men, then?”

 

“Older men. Father figures mostly. He’s desperate for attention, more than anything, I’d say. Probably why he’s latched onto you now.”

 

Jon blinked, once, twice, and started flushing a bright shade of red, as dark as Sansa’s hair, while she herself started laughing at the aghast look on his face. “Father figure?”

 

Royce shrugged, looking way too amused not to know what he’s doing. “Father figure, father. You are expecting children, yes?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Royce shrugged again, looking way too amused.

 

Jon looked around for a few seconds before quietly muttering that he had somewhere to be, and escaping to the sound of them both laughing at him.

 

Jon found Tormund in the training yard with a group of teenagers, who all seemed to be training in something, with a few of them even over at Gendry’s work area, seemingly learning the craft from his own hands.

 

Jon decided to forgo the actual important matters he needed to attend to right now, and look for his husband when an odd unsettling feeling came over him at his earlier conversation with Sansa and Royce.

 

Sometimes, he felt like he wasn’t trying to be a parent. That he was going through the motions of making a child to fulfill that void that the loss of one had created. It made him wonder if that was enough, or if there was something else he was missing.

 

Tormund was a good dad.

 

He waited until he was noticed, sitting on a crate he’d brushed snow off of, in nothing but the cloak Sansa had given him to ward off the cold. The rest of his clothes were too thin and soft to provide any protection.

 

They weren’t as soft as the silks Daenerys would give him when they slept together. They were rougher, but softer than anything anyone else might be wearing. He was getting funny looks, from sitting on an iced crate with nothing to protect him, and Tormund was rolling his eyes as soon as he laid them on Jon.

 

“I have told you, boy, you’re going to freeze solid, and don’t expect me to warm you when you do.”

 

Jon leaned up into him with a little smile when Tormund gave him a small kiss, too brief for anything but propriety. 

 

“You lie, Tormund Giantsbane, you are the only one I can trust to keep me warm.”

 

Tormund gave him that stupidly adorable grin that Jon loved so much, and reached out to gently pull Jon off the crate he’d been sitting on, and Jon let the man lead him out of the training yard and back into the warm keep. They went down a corridor, and towards the rooms Sansa had given to them to sleep in when they were there.

 

With seven wolves and usually two little girls who came and went as they pleased, they haven’t had much time to themselves lately.

 

The room was already lit by a magically burning fire in the hearth. Since the burning of the castle, the pipes that used to keep the walls of Winterfell so warm before were mostly damaged, but luckily, the Free Folk knew more about fire than most, and found a way to keep the castle warm for those who lived in it.

 

Jon let his husband lead him to the bed there, and he rather thought that he wouldn’t mind spending the rest of the day here with him.


	6. Nervous Pacing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is the one you have all been waiting for since I started writing this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things: Viserion is the colour that he was in the books, not in the tv show. He's white and gold in this one, not orange. I feel as tho this is much more symbolic. Also pretty.
> 
> Bran is very quiet in this: He's sort of been forced out of his own mind a little, I think. He's seen SO much through the weirwoods, that the idea of Self vs All of Human History has sort of gotten meshed up a little, and it's made him quite. He has more to think about than most people I think.
> 
> This fic is going with the theory that Tyrion Lannister is the child of Joanna and the Mad King, because it's a well known fact in the books, that the Mad King actually raped her a LOT, and it's possible that Tyrion is his son, making him Jon's Uncle, and Dany's older brother. This theory is heavily supported in the novels in much the same way that Jon being Lyanna and Rhaegar's son was heavily supported in the books, but not yet confirmed till later, but this one isn't as popular.
> 
> I'm not saying it's DEF true, but this fic is going under the guise that it's true.

Howland Reed was a patient man, he could wait for a lot of things. Of course, what he didn’t have patience for were these damn Northern lords in their castles scoffing at him for being a Crannogman of the Neck.

 

He found Jon Snow up in the ramparts of the castle, watching over the courtyard with a nervous and excited expression, like he can’t quite decide which to be. “You look nervous.”

 

Jon turned to look at Howland with a small frown. “I’m not nervous.”

 

“Then why look it?”

 

Jon watched Howland for a long moment. Howland was one of the few people outside Jon’s immediate family that wasn’t afraid to jab at him when they think he’s brooding. “I’m not nervous.”

 

They seemed to have a minute long staring contest that Jon already knew Howland would win. Crannogmen were all at once, different from other Northerners, and harder in ways. Howland always won those staring contests when Jon was young, and there was no reason Jon could think of that he wouldn’t now.

 

“Daenerys is going to be here in less than a week, she thinks. If she gets impatient and decides to fly ahead, she might be here within two days. She probably would have already gotten impatient and flown ahead if she knew where she was going, but she’s never been here before.”

 

“Only in your mind.” Jon nodded, and without word, Howland quietly put a small figurine on the stone rampart in front of him, and Jon watched it for a long minute before he pulled in a shaking breath of air.

 

“Where did you find that?” He picked up the figurine, running his hands over the long faded colour stain of grey on it. It was a knight, with a sigal of a laughing weirwood on their chest. On _her_ chest.

 

“Found a whole box of them down in the catacombs of all places, behind your mother’s crypt. It seems, your father couldn’t seem to part with them, so he moved them down there instead.”

 

Jon was biting at his lower lip till it almost bled, and he was trying so hard not to cry, picking up the wooden toy so he could hug it to his chest, at once _thankful_ that they were alone up here, because of all the things to break down over, this was the most rediculous he could think of. “Before I left for the Wall, I… I knew I couldn’t take them with me, men of the Knight’s Watch shouldn’t have _toys._ Father told me he would keep them safe for me, but I didn’t like… I told him they weren’t meant to be kept safe, they were for children to play. I told him to give them to Bran and Rickon later. Arya if she wanted them.”

 

Howland didn’t look upset, though he did come over to put a hand on Jon’s shoulder, trying to soothe him away from the tears in his eyes. “Do you remember when I gave you that one? It was the last time I saw you in person till you were ten.”

 

Jon looked down at the knight -Lyanna- and thought back to it. “I was five. I don’t remember much.”

 

“Children that young rarely do. I didn’t know when your father was planning on telling you about Lyanna, but I wanted to show you her as I remembered her. You didn’t know it was her at the time, only that it was a knight. Ned nearly cried.”

 

Jon snorted once. “He told me he got something in his eye. I remember that part well. I didn’t know why he would cry, only that I wanted him to stop. It wasn’t right.”

 

“It wasn’t right that a man would cry?”

 

Jon shook his head, still holding the figurine to his chest with a distant look on his face. “Not that a man should cry, but that my father should be sad.”

 

Howland nodded. “Well, now you know. It seems, I wasn’t the only one who remembered her for her strength. I think that’s why Robert was a bad king.”

 

Jon looked over at Howland, shocked. “What?”

 

Howland shrugged. “He went to war, and he stopped the Mad King, and that’s good… I guess, if not for the loss of all your father’s kin, I guess, but it’s why he was a bad king. He didn’t remember Lyanna for her strength in battle, her ability to defeat three great knights in one tourney all for the sake of someone else’s honor, he remembered her as a bride that was taken from him. A high Lady who should have been his queen. That’s why he was a bad king.”

 

Jon had the feeling Howland was telling him something, but he wasn’t fully sure what. “Am I a bad king for wanting my family back?”

 

Howland rolled his eyes heavenward. “You Starks are good rulers, but I swear each one is more dense than the last. Jon, I’m saying you’re already a good ruler, _because_ you wish you had your family back. You don’t want them because you saw them as a possession, you want them, because you saw them as a reason to keep going, and be better.”

 

Jon nodded. “Oh.”

 

Howland rolled his eyes, looking way too amused. “That figure, pretty as it is, isn’t the only reason I came looking for you. Not that I don’t love a chance to speak to my darling godson who’s taken to avoiding me at all turns-”

 

“Hey, I’m not avoiding you, I’m just-”

 

“Busy. I understand. But still, I need your help, I’m sure one of those Free Folk could probably help me, but I’m not sure who to go to. I need someone who can work wood for a project Bran and Meera asked for my help in.”

 

Jon looked down at the figurine for a moment before holding it up and pointedly looking at Howland. “I know you know how to work wood, I’ve seen you whittle a bird in under a day.”

 

Howland nodded. “Yes, well, carving and fitting aren’t the same thing. I’m terrible at getting two pieces of wood together once they’re apart, and Bran’s requested I help with… he says it’s an instrument, I think, something he saw in the weirwood tree’s visions. He needs someone to help him build it.”

 

Jon frowned. “Bran’s never had much patience for instruments. I do know that Mance is very good with a lyre, I’ll ask him who makes them, and see if they’ll help him.”

 

Howland shrugged. “When you don’t have much to do other than attend court, get visions and sit, I guess you learn patience where you can.”

 

Jon nodded, silent as he watched Howland take his leave again, before looking back down at the figurine with a newfound fondness for it. This is how Howland remembered Lyanna. Not a desperate maiden stolen from her home and killed at the end of a war, a knight who defended those weaker than her because a knight is only as good as others who dain to call themselves a knight as well.

 

He needed to be a better king than Robert, not wallowing in his past because he’d lost someone, but looking to the future with a need not to lose anyone else.

 

***

 

“I don’t understand why our kids would need a godfather,” Tormund scoffed even at the word, and Jon rolled his eyes. The Free Folk had a tendency to scoff at the idea of calling any mortal man a god, “our kids will have four parents, I think that’s good enough.”

 

Jon shrugged. “Well, chances of all of us dying are slim, I’ll admit that, but that’s not always the point of a godparent.”

 

Tormund was giving Jon a funny look, before Arya spoke up instead. “What were the chances that both our parents would be killed. Hell, what were the chances that I would have to see both of them, and Robb. You can’t mess with chances, we have horrible luck, we always lose.”

 

Bran didn’t look up from his plate, an upset look on his face, though Sansa and Jon looked at her in shock. “You saw Mother and Robb die?”

 

Arya shrugged. “Sort of. I saw them toss Mother’s body in the river, and sew Grey Wind’s head onto Robb’s body. I was so close to them, I was nearly there.”

 

Jon and Sansa shared a long look before turning back to Arya, and Jon gently spoke. “You know, Walter Frey is dead.”

 

She nodded. “And every son he has."

 

The room was quiet for a minute while most of them stared at her. Even Gendry and Meera were paying attention for once, though Meera looked more amused than anything. Finally, Arya shrugged, looking thoughtful.

 

“Do you know how hard it is to cut a person up and bake them in a pie? I didn’t know it would take that long. They didn’t put up much of a fight.”

 

Jon and Sansa both sat back with a sigh. They should have known that was coming. Gendry looked a little horrified. “You’ve been through some things since we were last together, haven’t you?”

 

Arya shrugged again. “Somewhat.”

 

Tormund was looking at Jon accusingly. “So it’s not just you who’s the only insane Stark. You’re entire family is full of people picking fights with those who are bigger than them.”

 

Jon looked bland when he replied. “Well, barely any of us have lost, so I think we’re doing something right.”

 

Tormund looked like he was about to argue, so Sansa threw a black olive at him, hitting him right in the middle of the forehead and giving her a distraction to interject. “What we’re trying to say, is that it’s smart. Even when my mother was still alive, the political pressure of a godparent demanding my return might have forced their hand and gotten me returned home sooner. I had no such godparent.”

 

Jon politely thought to himself that he’d been thinking of it more as a familial positioning than a strategic one. “The fact that I had a godfather meant that your mother couldn’t harm me. I had no doubt in my mind growing up that if something had happened to Father, I would have either been killed, exiled, or sent to the Wall. Despite the fact that I willingly went to the Wall, that doesn’t change the fact that she couldn’t harm me if Father had died while I was young, because I would have been taken to the Neck and become a ward of House Reed.”

 

Sansa did wince at that, not quite able to deny Catelyn’s hatred of Jon being a catalyst for worry when he was young. Tormund looked between the two of them with a frown. “I thought the Free Folk were a hard people. Keeping babes captive to taunt their families, killing children because you didn’t like how they got here, you all called us savages, but I don’t see it.”

 

None of them could really argue with that.

 

***

 

Jon searched out Howland this time, finding him in a workshop in the lower town with both Bran and Meera. Bran was working at a table with thin metal wires and horse hair. Jon didn’t have half a clue what he was trying to achieve other than what Howland has told him he’s working on.

 

Jon vaguely wonders when the Stark children started going to Howland for what they needed as if he could be a replacement for Ned. Jon rather thought out of any of them, he’d be the most likely to defer to him, but even the others have gone to him, and Jon’s starting to suspect that Howland has claimed Bran for his own alongside Jon.

 

He should probably be worried about that, but Bran has been so… he doesn’t talk to any of his siblings much anymore. Jon’s worried if he’s angry at them for some reason, but Bran doesn’t seem to hold scorn, instead, he holds a quiet melancholy.

 

Jon knows, that Bran has lost more than most of them, and with his isolation up North for the past few years, it’s probably hard for him to be around them anymore. From what he says he’s seen in the weirwoods, he’s seen every loss they all have, and more. Jon wishes that he could pull him out of the grief, but Bran seems almost lost to it sometimes.

 

Howland caught his eye before Jon could get fully into the room, but Jon had no doubt that Meera and Bran knew someone was there, even if they were willing to ignore him for now.

 

Howland put down a half carved block of wood on the table he’d had his feet up on and stood to leave the workshop so him and Jon could speak quietly. Jon remembers once as a child, asking him why he carved so much, he said his dad got tired of his constant fidgeting as a kid and had someone teach him how to carve to keep him still. Ned had tried a few different methods of getting Robb and Arya to sit still after that, but nothing quite calmed them like practicing with a sword, so Ned started pretending he didn’t know Jon was teaching her at that point. Robb always said that girls didn’t need to fight. Jon taught her how to take down someone bigger than you in three moves just to get him to shut up about it.

 

Howland paused before he could say anything, eyes landing on the leather satchel in Jon’s left hand with a raised eyebrow. Jon sighed once, and opened up the bag, pulling out three carved dragons. Their paint was long faded, but Jon had always taken good care of the figurines as a child, and they showed no chipping or cracks. Jon held them up, flat on his palms. They weren’t very big, but they still showed beautiful detail.

 

“Three dragons. One red, one green, and one white and gold. How could you possibly have known that?”

 

Howland reached out to run his finger down one little dragon wing on Drogon’s back, a thoughtful look on his face. “I made this one first. You were six, I believe. Your father sent me a message saying how excited you’d been for it, because Daenerys loved dragons.”

 

He sighed, looking at the others with the same grief in his eyes that Bran held almost always now, and Jon could have sworn, that maybe Howland Reed was going to shed a tear, a rare thing for the stoic man. “Jojen was just a little boy when he told me about the others. I had no way of knowing that his dreams were real like yours were, but as he got older, I stopped questioning him. I knew they were real.”

 

It took him a minute to keep going, and he gently picked the white and gold one out of Jon’s hands. He looked longing. “You were ten when he said I needed to send you more dragons, because Daenerys wouldn’t just have one, but three. The green one, Rhaegal, she’s yours.”

 

Jon thought carefully about where he wanted this conversation to go. “Who rides Viserion?”

 

Howland shrugged. “Jojen always said it was the imp Tyrion. At first I didn’t believe him, though it makes sense now. Why would a Lannister ride at the head of Daenerys’s armies with her? But, I guess, if he were fully Lannister it wouldn’t make sense.”

 

Jon put the dragons back in the bag, feeling a little numb. “He’s not fully a Lannister?”

 

Howland shrugged, gently handing over the white and gold one for Jon to add them to the bag. “It’s not something Jojen ever told me, I never asked. It seemed too big for a child to think about. It’s not secret though, that Joanna Lannister was taken by the Mad King many times before dying in childbirth.”

 

“And Tywin never stopped him?”

 

Howland looked uncomfortable. “What could he do against a king? Besides that, it’s why they went to live in Castlery Rock, to keep away from him. It didn’t work as well as they planned, it seems. It’s only my theory, but, well, the dragon has three heads, they say, and you said she has Tyrion at her side right now.”

 

Jon thought the implications of that were slightly horrifying. He stopped Howland before the man could go back into the workshop. “Um, that’s not all I came here for. How weird do you think it would be if I made Sansa Queen Regent?”

 

Howland thought about that for a moment, before shrugging. “Well, it’s less weird than if you weren’t married yourself, and regent is generally a position saved for those you’re not planning on, or able to marry. What does she think about it?”

 

Jon shrugged too. “I don’t know. I should probably ask her, huh?”

 

Howland was looking at him like he was an idiot. It’s okay, Jon gets that look a lot. “Yeah, you should.”

 

***

 

“I thought the archery range was for practicing?”

 

Sansa and Ygritte seemed to jump a mile apart from where Ygritte was helpfully ‘showing’ Sansa how she should actually be standing. Sansa had a flush nearly as red as her hair on her cheeks, but Ygritte just rolled her eyes, upset that he’s ruining her fun. “Your sister doesn’t need any practice, she’s a better shot than you are.”

 

Jon eyed her thoughtfully, taking his own bow off his shoulder and moving to stand at the target next to hers. “Is she, now?”

 

Ygritte looked between the two of them with a growing grin on her face. “So the King and Queen would like a little contest, huh?”

 

Sansa gave Ygritte an offended look. “I never said I wanted to have a contest.”

 

Jon pulled out an arrow with a little smirk. “Afraid you’ll lose, huh?”

 

She turned to glare at Jon. “No, I’m afraid it will upset our troops to see their much loved King and head of their armies, defeated.”

 

Ygritte snorted out a laugh behind them where she’d found a place to sit on a crate, legs crossed as she watched them in amusement. “You’re both out of your league. From what I’ve heard, a Dothraki learns to shoot from horseback at the age of five, and half the Free Folk choose a bow as their weapon of choice. Not to mention, I could beat any of them.”

 

Jon and Sansa both shared a look at that, eyes already rolling. “You might be able to beat us, but I’m sure there will be _someone_ who’s better than you are.”

 

She narrowed her eyes at them, looking annoyed, and Jon had the feeling there was going to be a test on this sometime soon.

 

***

 

When Tormund was coming back from Fedra and her siblings’ living area, he found that there were Free Folk armed and pouring into the castle gates in roves. He stopped a teen as she made her way inside with a bow on her back. “What’s happening in the castle?”

 

She grinned up at him, eager. “The King wants to find the best archer in the Free Folk. He says he doesn’t think Ygritte could possibly be the best.”

 

Tormund rolled his eyes heavenwards. “Sometimes I wonder how that man survived this long, and then I remember he didn’t. There’s always someone to taunt when you’re that dumb.”

 

The teen cackled as he pushed his way through the crowds towards the archery range, and when he got through, he found exactly what idiocy he thought he would when he got there.

 

“Boy, are you looking for another long sleep, because this is asking for it.”

 

Jon looked up from his own bow with a raised eyebrow, before looking back to where Sansa was standing next to him, waiting for several other archers to take their place next to her and Ygritte for the next round.

 

He looked around for a moment, before nodding. “My loving husband is right.”

 

There were groans from the gathered crowd, before Jon shrugged. “This is no place for a contest. This range is too small. Find a clear space outside the encampment and set up targets. The more the better. Let’s make this a real challenge.”

 

Tormund wondered how Jon had survived this long. Really, he did.

 

***

 

They were on the tenth round of the competition waiting for the area to be cleared of those who lost, and arrows to be retrieved, when they heard a horn. One single horn.

 

Jon had thought about devising a new system for telling apart friend and foe now that they were no longer at the Wall, but it would have been a bad idea, seeing as most of the North knew the Night’s Watch horns. One for friendly riders returning, two for an approaching attack, and three for Walkers and Whytes.

 

The horn was loud enough for all the camp to hear, and probably the castle too, it would have to be to stop this many people.

 

Jon looked over to where Sansa was standing with one of the other spearwives Ygritte was friends with, and for a second, he didn’t know what to say. He knew what was coming, but no idea what to say.

 

It had taken a while for Sansa to fully realize Daenerys wasn’t a figment of his imagination -and the desperate apologizing that followed it that Jon had tried to reassure her of. It’s not as though he ever really did anything to prove she wasn’t imaginary- and Jon felt his heart spot in his chest with dread for a second as every single fear he’s ever felt about this coming moment, came to mind.

 

What if she was nothing like in their dreams? What if she was terrible and cruel? What if she rode with ill intentions towards them?

 

What if they were all right? What if Daenerys wasn’t real, and riding up was an army without her at the helm?

 

It took a hand on his arm for him to break himself out of the staring contest him and Sansa seemed to be locked into, and when he looked up, it was Bran of all people, sitting at the top of a horse with a fitted saddle that allowed him to leave the castle as long as he stayed on it. Bran tugged once on his hand until Jon finally moved, pulling him up onto the back of the horse with him before turning around and heading back towards the castle entrance.

 

The others followed on foot, though Jon was almost too nervous to move, so he held tight to his younger brother’s waist, thankful that he didn’t need to walk, and possibly embarrass himself along the way.

 

They passed by the planted weirwood tree in the middle of the encampment closest to the gates of Winterfell, and Jon could see it was thriving in the magic of the camp here. Already it was thicker than it had been two weeks after it had sprouted, and nearly as tall as Tormund now.

 

Already, it’s blessed three weddings since it was planted nearly two weeks ago.

 

When they got to the other side of the camp, Jon could clearly see an approaching army from the South, though he was said to have better sight than most, they wouldn’t be there for a few more minutes at least.

 

Bran stopped him from dismounting the horse though, both of them looking back to see the rest of their party wasn’t too far behind, and there were lords coming from the castle.

 

Robin Arryn was coming out of the crowd with Daia and Betha, Shadow and her pups following them out. Robin picked up the smallest in the litter when she tripped over a rock, holding her to his chest as he watched the army approach, looking as nervous as Jon felt.

 

Bran shifted just enough in his saddle so he could look Jon in the eye, and for a second, Jon wasn’t looking at his little brother, he was looking at the Three Eyed Raven, and he was eternal and older than a sixteen year old should be, and almost painfully knowing. In that moment, Jon realized why he couldn’t pull himself out of grief sometimes.

 

“Do not doubt your mind, brother. You know the woman approaching, and she knows you. You were _never_ crazy, do not let any of them give you doubt. You know her.”

 

Jon couldn’t speak for a second, nodding as he swallowed around the lump in his throat before sliding off the back of the horse, just as overhead, they could hear an ungodly screech, before three dragons took flight into the sky, heading straight towards them.

 

Jon was more ready than he’s ever been in his life, and entirely, completely, terrified.

 

Not of her. Not of the dragons. Of the possibility of Bran being wrong. He knew he wasn’t, but tell that to his rapidly beating heart.

 

He looked around as they flew towards him, and realized that him and Bran were further out than any of them around the camp, and took several long strides out towards where the dragons were obviously going to land, and less than ten seconds later, the green dragon landed neatly, twenty feet from Jon’s spot, and he stood a little taller, acutely aware of being watched from all sides.

 

Rhaegal, she was beautiful and warm, he could tell standing this far away from her, she was burning bright, and shining. He loves her immensely.

 

The white and gold one landed next. Viserion was another thing entirely, and for a second, Jon could see him carrying Tyrion on his back, a mix of Lannister gold and Targaryen white, made entirely for his rider. He wondered if Tyrion would ride him, or if that was just a thought.

 

And then, great and nearly twice their size, next landed Drogon, with black and red scales that were bigger than Jon’s hands. This was the dangerous one, and he knew it, letting out a fierce roar that pierced Jon’s eardrums, and he knew that people were stepping back behind them. He didn’t flinch though.

 

Oh, he wanted to, that was a terrifying roar, but to be honest, it’s breath was scarier.

 

Jon’s been waiting to meet them since they had hatched, and they were more beautiful than he remembered them to be.

 

When she got off his back, he didn’t know what to say. She was wearing black leather that her hair stood stark white against, completely fearless with a scowl on her face as she took them all in.

 

Jon knew otherwise. He could feel a resounding fear in the back of his heart, and it wasn’t coming from him, nor was it an echoing of his own. She truly shared the same fear as him, and suddenly, Jon wasn’t so scared, because she was there, just as he’d seen her in their dreams, just as beautiful, just as tall, just as white haired, just as terrifying to those she doesn’t yet know if she should call friend.

 

Jon barely remembers walking to her, only that she was moving too, only that the fear in his chest turned to almost pure bliss the moment that her arms went around him, and only that he prayed to god that he didn’t start crying in front of this many people, because he wanted to, because her arms felt like home in a way that he’d never experienced before.

 

For the first time ever, it was like finding the other half to a broken sword, like when Ice and Fire had come together when him and Daia had made a weirwood seed, and like when the North and South had come together as one kingdom.

 

It felt like his soul itself was cheering, and he could tell she felt the same, because his body felt light, and for a second, he wondered if this was what flying felt like.

 

She pulled back from him, and when he felt her thumbs brushing the skin below his eyes, he realized that he had ended up crying anyways, though her eyes were shining with a few tears of her own. She smiled up at him, looking happier than Jon had seen her in years. Not since she told him she’d be having a son.

 

He swallowed, still unable to talk now, and she finally spoke after watching him for what felt like forever. Her army was finally here, stopped, with the front lines a good fifty feet from the dragons, though some of her advisors kept coming till they were between Drogon and Viserion.

 

“You look terrible in leather, it doesn’t suit you at all, dear brother.”

 

Jon snorted, and he wished they were alone right now, so desperately, because for the first time in years, he honestly feels like he couldn’t control his body and mind right now, like he’s drunk too much mead and feels like he might pass out soon.

 

It’s a bad idea to be in front of this many people while he feels so out of control. “It’s not like I could wear silk in the North, it’s not warm.”

 

Daenerys snorted, as if he could even feel the cold at all. “You’re far too soft for all this war and hard cold. You should be somewhere warm and coddled, though I know you would never accept it, sweet love.”

 

“You’re right, I would never accept that. Are you the conqueror who would take me away from this?”

 

“If I thought I could drag you away for your people, I would take you somewhere safe in a heartbeat. Somewhere no one could touch you but me.”

 

“I think my husband would protest with vigor.”

 

Daenerys nodded. “As he should. Now, you have another sibling waiting for you at the head of my army, and I want to speak to your queen regent before she’s crowned.”

 

Daenerys shooed Jon off towards the front of her army, and Jon thought it would take a hit to the head to get him to let go of her, but it was actually easier than he thought, though his confusion over her comment was still there as he walked away.

 

Her advisors, oddly, made him more nervous than she had made him.

 

He thinks he might vaguely recognize Jorah from when he was a child, but it was hard to remember faces from that long ago, though the man looked friendlier than the others for the moment.

 

Tyrion looked a little nervous at him, like this Northern man might try to kill him the way most of the others always tried to. “It’s been a while, Snow.”

 

Jon nodded at him. “Lannister. I hear you’ve been traveling a bit since leaving the Wall.”

 

Tyrion nodded. “I’ve been around a bit.”

 

Jon nodded. “I didn’t end up going that far, to be honest.”

 

“I heard you made Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

 

Jon nodded, giving Jorah a sad look, though the man seemed content to stare at a rock. “Got stabbed a few times for it, seems people just don’t respect new interesting ideas nowadays.”

 

Jorah snorted once, and Jon couldn’t help but wonder if he would like Jon, or resent his connection to Daenerys. “I hear there’s someone else here for me?”

 

Jorah nodded, and motioned for Jon to follow him back into the -much more orderly than his Free Folk- lines of Unsullied men till they stopped at a cart.

 

“Sam!”

 

Sam got down from the cart that Gilly and Little Sam were sitting on with him, and Jon eagerly leaned into a hug with him. He sort of thought that his hug with Daenerys had been better, and he wondered if he’d always compare hugs to hers from now on.

 

“It’s been a long time, Sam.”

 

Sam pulled back, looking at him with a sad smile. Obviously, he knows about Jon dying after Sam had left.

 

“It has been. Now, you’ll want to take us up to the castle. I have a present for your brother.”

 

When they turned back to the castle, Jon really hoped that he wasn’t dreaming right now. He felt like this was a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes Jon, you're awake, don't worry.
> 
> When Jon walked in on Ygritte 'helping' Sansa in the archery range, yes, she was def planning on tapping that when Jon came around and ruined their fun. Rude of you Jon.

**Author's Note:**

> littlesforfandom.tumblr.com
> 
> Maiahas is a trans female character in case you did not catch that. Watch me throw in ideas about queer Free Folk at every turn, you know I will.


End file.
